


The Vicar of Erebor

by leupagus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F, F/M, Female Bilbo, Multi, Other, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 100,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gandalf,” said the captain, doffing his hat as he stepped within. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I was obliged to ask direction — twice.”</p><p>***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The family of Durin had long been settled in Westmorland. The estate of Erebor Park was a prosperous and attractive one, though in truth Erebor Castle was situated in such a manner as to confront rather than welcome those seeing it for the first time. Alone on the highest peak in the country, the journey to the manse was a challenge; it was said that a horse bred in the district was tested by how well it could make the journey from the bottom of the park to the front lawn. And indeed the Durin family prided itself on its own strength of will, with the respectable title of Baron passed from father to son for generations beyond counting. An ancestor had engraved the family motto over the gate: _Omnia Patiemur_ — “we endure all things.”

But it was this very question of endurance that was to be the undoing of that great family's much-vaunted respectability, and it did so in curious degrees. Lord Thror, who had been referred to for so long as Old Durin that when pressed the townsfolk would seek counsel with each other to remember his Christian name, was much advanced in years and his only son the Honble. Thrain Durin had not yet married, still less produced an heir. Should they both die without further issue, the estate would fall to a distant branch from the North, a family of some wealth who, in the tradition of all families of some wealth, would be happy to add Erebor Park to their holdings. Though the old baron had no reason to dislike the young man in line after his son, his most frequent topic of conversation with Mr. Durin was one of his need to marry. 

Mr. Durin — naturally known in conversation as Young Durin, though he was rising forty — had occupied the entirety of his adult life in dealing with the estate, for his father employed no steward; his most common rejoinder to his father’s wishes was, who would see to Erebor if he were to abandon it for an entire Season? But he was ever one to solve what problems were presented to him, and so inquired after, and obtained, a young steward of affable demeanour whose handicap of the last name Master was overcome by his almost obsequious attentiveness. Young Durin was satisfied that at least Erebor would not suffer overmuch in his absence, and so the following Season he made pilgrimage to London to see if he might not find someone suitable to cleave to. After all, theirs was a family of property; a wife in such circumstances can be acquired with a minimum of difficulty.

But rather than returning at the end of the Season with a wife, Young Durin returned more than seven months later — after a most alarming lack of correspondence — not with a wife, but with news of a son soon to be born. The mother, Mr. Durin claimed, was unable to come due to her confinement in London, but would be sure to visit Erebor Park as soon as it was convenient.

To say that Old Durin was upset by this adherence to his own exhortation is to vastly understate the matter. Young Durin had been throughout his life a sober, thoughtful gentleman, whose attention to the needs of the estate his father had ascribed to filial obedience rather than pragmatism — it was outside Old Durin’s understanding that his son might commit such a rash action as to get married without approval. Besides, the so-called Mrs. Durin was a woman of neither distinct name nor great property; amongst her relations there were to be found more residents of Cheapside than Belgrave Square. As a wife to the seventeenth Baron of Erebor, this was entirely unsuitable; Old Durin’s only consolation was that his son provided him with no evidence that any marriage had taken place. A bit o’ muslin with a bastard might be salvageable — after all, Mr. Durin could always try again next year.

This last comment was met with a volcanic response on the part of Young Durin, once again an idea impossible to conceive previous to his absence in London. But the rage was real, and irrevocable; Mr. Master tried his best (or so he informed anyone with whom he spoke) to heal the breach between father and son, but the line of Durin did not bend once set.

For months war raged. Young Durin was obliged to leave his father's house and let out Dale Abbey across the lake; trapped in between, the good people of Laketown bore witness to the battles, for though no one wished for a scene (indeed, they would often repeat this to each other as they watched father and son shout over dinner tables and across assembly rooms), it was out of the question to invite one and not the other. At last Young Durin quit Laketown altogether, vowing to return only upon the report of his father’s death, and then only to ensure that such a report were true. For his part, Old Durin made public his determination to outlive his son: better that the line of Durin die out entirely than to allow a bastard — for bastard this child would surely be — to sit in the House of Lords.

Perhaps if Young Durin had been not quite so faithful to his vow, things would have been different. Old Durin soon grew to regret his words, and spoke of extending an invitation to his son and perhaps even to his grandchildren. But the invitations, if they were sent, were never accepted. Young Durin and his family remained steadfastly in Town, where he was presented with three healthy children in succession, though their youngest was to prove her mother's downfall. And even then, Mr. Durin might have lived to break his promise — but only a few years later he died in a house fire, a conflagration that also claimed the life of his younger son. The shock of this news, which could have further tendered Old Durin’s heart toward his surviving descendants, instead sent him to his bed in a fit of apoplexy; he never rose from it, and died a week later.

And so when Old Durin was buried, the funeral was attended only by what tenants and friends had survived him, and no family at all. What became of the two orphans stranded in London, no one in Laketown knew. Of a certainty they were not present at the reading of the Will (signed and dated sixteen years previous), which in the absence of any legitimate heirs left all titles, lands, and property to one John Smaug. This worthy individual came down from the North when summoned to assume those responsibilities which he had perhaps not been born to expect. The young Mr. Master (who had in intervening years grown out of his epithet) remained attached to the estate, and with this it seemed the transfer of Erebor from the line of Durin to the line of Smaug was complete.

The citizens of Laketown, indeed, had no suspicion that the Durin line _could_ have endured. As years turned into decades, there came a kind of half-hearted refrain amongst the older residents (when they were sure that none of Mr. Master’s friends were close at hand) that it was such a great pity that Young Durin had not arrived at some understanding with his father. Some even began to speak idly of Young Durin’s remaining son, who (it was whispered) had taken his mother’s name and gone to seek his fortunes on the sea. But it was spoken of with the same wistful resignation that one uses to speak of the inclement weather, or the poor prospects of an upcoming harvest; as something against which the common people were helpless, as something which could only be influenced by powers greater than they could comprehend.

***

Of all this, the new vicar of Erebor Park knew nothing. Miss Bilbo Baggins, lately of Hobbiton in _____shire,  had visited Laketown as a child, but she was entirely ignorant of the history behind it. She knew only that Mr. Gandalf, long the rector of the district and an old family friend, had secured her a living attached to the manor, along with a vicarage, his own accommodations being the Old Rectory on the far side of town. She was grateful, though not excessively so; born to comfortable circumstances, her parents' deaths had left her adequately provided for should she have chosen to remain a gentleman’s daughter. But Gandalf had, in the manner of mysterious wizards in tales, bewitched her from a young age, muttering spells about the wide world outside Hobbiton. It was he who had suggested for her the daring idea of education and perhaps a profession, rather than idle dreaming in her comfortable home. Adventure, he hinted, might well be found beyond the rolling farmlands and little rivers of the south.

Still, when she presented herself one chilly spring day in the year '10, she did not imagine the adventures that were to present _themselves_ to _her_ , in due time. Nor did the subsequent four years give her any apprehension; there was indeed a great deal of good to be done in Laketown and the surrounding district, though little of it requiring a particularly bold or brave spirit. It is the tradition of almost every respectable rector (and Mr. Gandalf was, if not quite respectable, at the very least adept at appearing so) to leave much of the work to the vicars and curates of each parish. To this tradition Mr. Gandalf paid assiduous tribute, which meant that Miss Baggins wrote sermons, visited the poor and sick, collected tithes, and made regular calls to Erebor Park, where she made an agreeable impression on the baron and kept her own impressions to herself.

That, at least, was little hardship, for aside from Gandalf, who had seemed throughout her childhood to know what she was thinking before she thought it, there were few people in Laketown to whom she wished to confide. However, she was far from friendless in her new home, and indeed could often be found taking tea with Mr. Bowman and his children, or discussing the flowerbeds at the church with the elderly curate Mr. Radagast.

And so Miss Baggins kept herself busy and virtuous, and if she still glanced at the old maps she had pored over as a little girl, if she still dreamed of a life with a broader scope, it was well-regulated. Life in Laketown was sedate, and peaceful, and nothing unexpected ever happened.

Until one evening, when there was a knock on the door.

***

This was, in itself, not unusual; Bilbo often entertained, and just as often entertained without recalling the particular invitation. She went to the door expecting a parishioner and opened it to find a tall stranger examining her garden from the doorstep. Her eyes widened as she took in the blue coat of His Majesty’s Navy.

The man turned and gave her one of the most appraising looks she’d ever been given in her life. “Dwalin,” he said at last, bowing low. “At your service.”

“Miss Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” she said, making a quick bob in return. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Food,” he replied. “I was told there would be food here.”

“Oh,” she said, “I — see.”

As she watched him eat an entire trout, consume three servings of potatoes, and begin serious inroads into her scones, she tried to frame the question of what brought him to her door. But every time she found a phrase that might best encompass her confusion, the man found another thing to eat.

At last she said, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at our services before?”

He stared at her, crumbs collecting in his beard. “Aye, that you haven’t.”

“I see,” she repeated, before the bell rang.

“That’ll be the door,” her guest noted.

It was another officer - older and broader, with a head of bright white hair. “Balin,” the new man said with a deep bow. “At your service.”

Bilbo looked towards her dining room. “Sir,” she began. “You wouldn’t happen to have a friend who…”

Mr. Dwalin stepped into the entry hall, picking something from his teeth with one of his fingernails, and grinned at the man — Mr. Balin — still standing in the doorway. “A month’s leave, and you’ve managed to become shorter and wider than when we saw each other last.”

“Wider, not shorter,” Mr. Balin assured him.

“Have you eaten?” Mr. Dwalin asked.

Bilbo stood frozen at the door of her own home, reviewing this recent turn of events, but she could come to no conclusion. Instead, she shut the door and followed the sound of earnest discussion coming from her pantry, where Messrs. Dwalin and Balin were already exploring what she had to offer. When Mr. Dwalin held up a large block of cheese to his nose and then pushed it under Mr. Balin’s to compare, she opened her mouth because this was quite enough.

There was another ring of the doorbell.

Messrs. Balin and Dwalin turned to look at her. Bilbo pursed her lips and held up one finger in warning. “I will get that,” she said.

Mr. Balin smiled at her as Mr. Dwalin moved to the other side of the pantry and continued his running commentary.

At the door were two young men — hardly men, they seemed more suited for short pants than the naval uniforms they wore.  “Fíli,” said one.

“Kíli,” said the other.

“At your service,” said both.

“And at yours,” Bilbo said. “May I ask-”

“Fíli, Kíli, give us a hand!” Mr. Dwalin called out behind Bilbo.

They edged around her towards Mr. Balin, who had taken it upon himself to begin moving her sideboard into the kitchen. “We’ll never get everyone in otherwise,” he advised them.

“May I ask, exactly,” Bilbo called, “Who is ‘everyone’?”

The bell rang again.

“Good timing, that,” Mr. Fíli remarked as he grabbed one end of the sideboard.

“Indeed,” Bilbo muttered as she opened the door onto a loud, chattering sea of blue. They all bowed and proclaimed themselves at her service, and before she could protest that she had not heard a single one of their names, much less what they were doing in her home, they’d passed by her and into the dining room, now denuded of everything except the long table and the six chairs that were usually sufficient to her needs. 

Bilbo was just about to slam the door shut and go have a very calm conversation with Mr. Balin, who alone seemed someone that might not be entirely mad, when the door’s progress was halted by a hand.

“Ah, Bilbo,” Gandalf said as he stepped inside. 

“ _Gandalf,_ ” Bilbo said, for now at least some things were clear — mainly, that her rector was in some way responsible for this outrage.

For his part, however, he seemed entirely unconcerned. “You’re at home,” he observed, hanging up his coat. “Excellent.”

“Yes,” she hissed, shutting the door behind him. “I _am_. Do you know who else is at home? Several men, Gandalf, _naval_ men, not of Laketown and not of my acquaintance, all arrived at the house of a female vicar with designs upon her pantry.”

“We’ve heard such tales,” said one of the officers passing through with a stool liberated from the kitchen, his head covered by a hat that Bilbo hoped very much would not catch on in fashionable circles.

What followed was one of the most bewildering hours of Bilbo’s life. Blue coats were thrown over every available surface, sleeves were rolled up, and the contents of her pantry were emptied onto her dining table as the company to a man fell to eating and drinking with great relish. They used every bit of dishware and every utensil in the house and ignored the napkins unless it was to wrap something up to store in their pockets or packs.

“Bombur, catch!” cried the behatted one, tossing one of Bilbo’s hardboiled eggs across the entire length of the table. A cheer went up as the bombur (or perhaps that was his name) caught it in his mouth. Bilbo retreated into the kitchen where, she thought, a cup of tea might bring this entire evening into some kind of focus.

The tea was steeping nicely when she realised she had no teacups left — they were all on the dining room table, being used as repositories for sauces and relish.

“Heaven preserve me,” Bilbo huffed, staring at her bare cupboards.

"My dear Bilbo," Gandalf said, wandering into the kitchen as she spoke, “What on earth is the matter?”

“What is the _matter_?” asked Bilbo, turning toward. “You cannot be serious.”

“I may have a reputation for frivolity, but it is entirely unfounded, I assure you,” Gandalf said, affecting a wounded countenance.

“Oh, indeed,” Bilbo said, “But since you ask, there is the _matter_ of my pantry, which been all but plundered; my carpets, which has soil on it from goodness knows where; and what is more I have been entertaining _sailors_ in my home, something which, vicar or no, I am sure no spinster should be contemplating at this time of evening. Or at this time of life,” she added with feeling. 

“Oh, they’re quite a merry gathering — once you get used to them,” said Gandalf.

“I do not _wish_ to get used to them,” Bilbo replied, and would have gone on at greater length but for a great knocking at the door.

“Ah, he is here,” Gandalf said, and patted Bilbo on the shoulder as he went to the hall.

The “he” in question was no sailor, at least; he bore the bicorne of a captain of the fleet, and his dress was smart and, truth to tell, over-new; he looked stiff and uncomfortable, out of place.

“Gandalf,” said the captain, doffing his hat as he stepped within. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I was obliged to ask direction — twice.”

“I am sure you did, for your Company has been here a good while,” Gandalf replied. “Bilbo, may I introduce to you Captain Thorin Oakenshield, late of His Majesty’s navy. Captain, this is Miss Baggins, current hostess to your party.”

“So,” said the captain, sketching a cursory bow, “This is the vicar.”

“At your service, I’m sure,” said Bilbo, though in truth she was not at all sure what service she would willingly render to one who got lost in the middle of a town square — nor to one who appraised her as though she were an unpromising block of cheese.

“The front room is no place for conversation,” Gandalf said, clapping his hands together. “Please, Captain, come further in. Your Company will be glad of your arrival.”

They were, indeed, cheerful and attentive to their captain, pressing upon him more of Bilbo’s food and finding one or two bottles of wine that they had not yet opened. Bilbo collapsed on a chair next to Gandalf, who was smoking his pipe and listening to the sailor’s talk with what was, for him, a surprising reticence.

Certainly it did not seem particularly worth listening to; some talk of a court proceeding and evidentiary requirements, to do with some documentation needed. Bilbo, trying to do some mental arithmetic as to what she would charge Gandalf for this outrageous imposition, did not attend until Gandalf cleared his throat. “Bilbo, my dearest, could we perhaps have a little more light?” he asked, and Bilbo roused herself enough to note the captain drawing out of his pocket a much-folded bit of paper.

“That’s another item on the list,” she muttered at Gandalf, but rose to comply, finding her bedroom candle already set for the evening on the mantlepiece. She lit it and brought it over to the table, where the paper was unfolded with great ceremony.

Bilbo was not sure what ceremony was warranted; it was no more than a drawing or map of some sort, rendered in haste and with charcoal or pencil, smudged badly. In one corner were some scribblings, also difficult to make out. And yet the captain and his crew hushed in reverence as Captain Oakenshield laid the item flat.

“This may,” he said, “Be of some use to our endeavour.”

“It may indeed!” said Gandalf. “That is your father’s writing, if I am not mistaken.”

“I hope you are not; the fire during my childhood and my sister's left us with no other writings by his hand.”

“It's a riddle,” Bilbo realised, forgetting her pique (and, indeed, forgetting not to spill wax on the table) as she leaned over to get a better look, for she loved riddles.

 _“‘What has roots as nobody sees,_  
 _Is taller than trees,_  
 _Up, up it goes,  
_ _And yet never grows?’_

“That’s easy,” she added. “Anyone in the District knows _that_.”

“Yes, but not necessarily those outside it,” Gandalf said with some chiding in his tone. Bilbo, long used to Gandalf’s odd sense of when she was overreaching herself, tried not to set her eyes to rolling as she put the candle on the table and addressed the dozen faces turned toward her.

“For those in this Company not so well-versed in riddles,” she said, feeling very much as though she were addressing a schoolroom, “The answer is Erebor Pike, the highest peak in England. It once had a silver mine running underneath, which is why the baron was called the Lord of Silver Fountains, though that's not much in practice these days. Everyone here just calls it the Mountain, or the Lonely Mountain.”

“So it’s true, then,” Captain Oakenshield said, though he did not seem to be speaking to her. “That _proves_ it.”

“That provides you with strong evidence,” Gandalf told him. “The proof is yet to be procured.”

“Proof of _what_?” Bilbo demanded. Bereft of her pantry, her dining room, and now her bedroom candle, she was nearing the end of her patience.

Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but it was Captain Oakenshield who answered her. “Proof that I am who I claim to be,” he said, though he still addressed the strange drawing and did not do her the courtesy of looking her in the eye.

“And who might that be?”

“The lord of Erebor Park,” he said, and at last he looked up at her, all arrogance and haughty demeanour. “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, of the Barony of Durin.”

Bilbo burst out laughing. “Oh,” she said after a moment, when no one else seemed to find the joke diverting. “You’re serious.”

“Right, lads,” said one of the sailors — the one with the hat — getting to his feet. “Let’s do a bit of swabbing.”

***

“Swabbing” apparently meant “cleaning,” which was in its way almost as distressing as the invasion itself had been; indeed when Bilbo found herself bundled into the parlour with Gandalf, Captain Oakenshield, and Mr. Balin, she found her attention sorely divided between listening to their conversation and straining to hear sounds of broken crockery.

“The estate went to Smaug under the condition that my father sired no legitimate sons,” Captain Oakenshield was saying, just as Bilbo heard some muffled swearing coming from the direction of the kitchen. “However, were my legitimacy to be proven, then the estate would revert to me.”

“Most probably,” said Gandalf, and only years of knowing him made Bilbo narrow her eyes. “Most probably” in this instance meant “I am not at all sure of that, but it is well to seem certain.”

“Then certainly the next step for you is to present a magistrate with the marriage license of your father to your mother,” Bilbo said, wincing as she heard the scrape of something heavy — the table, most probably — being dragged along the floor.

“That is, in fact,” Gandalf said, “The crux of the complication.”

“All of my family’s papers, as well as everything else we owned, burned to the ground when I was sixteen years old,” said Captain Oakenshield, bluntly. “And the witnesses to my parents’ marriage have all died. What is more, there is no knowing _where_ they were married; I have looked in on every church and hall in London and found no records.”

“So you have no proof,” Bilbo said, for it was nearing midnight and she had had enough of these sailors three hours ago. “It is difficult to see what claim you could bring forward, then.”

“You’ve a talent for unhelpful remarks, Miss Baggins; has no one told you?” The captain looked very much offended, which cheered her up considerably.

“Only people I had little interest in helping, Captain Oakenshield,” she replied. “I can’t imagine why you would think to include yourself amongst them.”

“Yes, we’ll get to that in a bit,” Gandalf said, clearing his throat. “The proof that he seeks may be within our grasp — if we are careful, and clever.”

Mr. Balin, who had spent most of the evening looking cross, gave a snort, which was entirely in accordance to Bilbo’s feelings.

Gandalf, as he was so adept at doing, ignored whatever derision may have been cast upon him, instead speaking to Bilbo. “I have heard it from the Steward of Erebor Park, who served the late baron, that the captain’s father refused to produce a marriage certificate not because he did not have it, but rather on a matter of principle; he took offence at the idea that the baron should doubt his word.”

“It is a grave offence indeed, for a father to doubt the honour of his only son,” Captain Oakenshield said. “I too would have refused.”

“Yes, well,” said Gandalf. “I believe it possible that Young Durin did, in fact, _bring_ with him the marriage license; that he locked it into the castle’s safe, and would have shown it to his father, had his father _requested_ and not _demanded_. It follows, therefore, that the license is still there.”

“How does that follow?” asked Mr. Balin. “This Smaug fellow would doubtless have taken any such evidence out of the safe and burned it long ago.”

“Perhaps so. But we are handed an advantage thrice-over in this regard,” said Gandalf. “Firstly, it is doubtful that Smaug knows of the safe’s existence; it lies hidden in his manor—“

Captain Oakenshield made a noise that was somewhere between a grumble and a growl, most alarming.

“In _the_  manor, rather,” Gandalf continued smoothly, “But without either someone to show him or a map to lead him, he would find himself hard-pressed to find it even if he knew it was there; and I have it on good authority that the only two men in the world who knew of the safe’s location were the father and son — not even Mr. Master knew it existed.”

“On whose good authority?” Bilbo said.

“On Mr. Thrain Durin’s, of course,” Gandalf snapped — he was a great deal shorter-tempered with her than he was with her guest. “When he took his leave of Laketown, he came to see me — to this very house, in fact, for I was then still but a humble vicar to Erebor Park and not rector to the district.”

Bilbo gave a slight bow from where she sat; Gandalf returned it.

“And what did he say?” Captain Oakenshield inquired.

“And what is the second advantage we hold?” Mr. Balin added. “Not to mention the third.”

“One question at a time, I beg of you,” said Gandalf. “Mr. Durin told me he told me that he would not be returning in the near future, and had placed something of great value in the safe before quitting his father’s estate that he could not now recover. I offered to retrieve it for him — my relationship with Old Durin was such that he would allow me almost as much free reign within the house as Smaug allows Miss Baggins — but he said that would not be necessary. ‘It will keep until I return,’ he said, ‘For there are only two people who know where the safe is, and if it is not me, then it will be my father, who finds it — and that will settle matters just as well.’”

“Another riddle,” Bilbo muttered, before remembering her company.

But Mr. Balin chuckled. “Spoken like a lass after my own heart,” he said. “So you’re telling us that this scrap of paper Thorin — the captain holds is some sort of map to the safe?”

“I believe it to be so,” Gandalf replied. “It is certainly a representation of the second floor of the estate — is it not, Bilbo?”

Bilbo looked at the piece of paper once more, now spread out on her desk with four candles lit on each corner. Further billing to Gandalf, she thought, and squinted at the smudgy lines. “It does appear so,” she said grudgingly, though now that it was said she could find no way to doubt. This was the square where the great clock sat, those walls described the hallways that she had often trod. There was a great large X in one room toward the back of the house, on the north wall; a moment’s thought gave her the location. “It appears this safe of your father’s is in one of the master chambers,” she said. "Probably the dressing room, if I were to guess."

“You’ve seen the master chambers of the estate?” Captain Oakenshield asked.

“Of course not,” she snapped, knowing that she was blushing. “It’s among my myriad duties to the estate to give tours of the property when requested by visitors; usually the second floor would be off-limits, but as Lord Smaug has neither wife nor children, he generously opened the family rooms to the public. The only rooms on that floor that remain private are his personal chambers — but it is hardly beyond my abilities to deduce the existence of a gentleman's dressing room, is it?”

“Well done, madam,” Gandalf muttered, in such a low voice she suspected she was the only one to hear it.

At any rate, the explanation seemed to satisfy the captain. “So there is my proof,” he crowed, rather than thanking her, though he did smile for the first time she had ever seen as he stared down at the map.

“Proof that there’s a safe,” Mr. Balin said, “ _Perhaps_. But you’re forgetting, laddie, that safes are usually not just hidden, but locked; there’s no way in, even if we could find a way into the man’s private chambers.”

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” Gandalf said with great relish, as he produced from his pocket a key — a great old-fashioned sort of thing, queerly pretty in its way.

“How came you by this?” the captain asked, reaching for it.

“It was given to me by your father,” said Gandalf as he handed it over, “For safekeeping.”

Bilbo was set to ask what on earth Gandalf, who had such a history of losing his glasses that he now had four spares, two of which resided permanently at Bilbo’s house, could do to keep anything safe, but Mr. Balin said, “Very well, that’s the second advantage. And your much-vaunted third?”

“Miss Baggins,” Gandalf said, and Bilbo looked up at him. But he was not addressing her; instead he continued, “She has been the vicar to the park for almost four years, and knows the grounds and the estate well; moreover she has the confidence and high regard of its… current occupant. I believe she can be of great use.”

“And _will_ she?” Mr. Balin said, turning to her.

“Will I — what?” asked Bilbo, somewhat behind the conversation (in truth, she had been listening to the ominous quiet coming from the direction of the kitchen; the sounds of cheerful oaths and dishes had been audible throughout, but now there was only silence, something that caused her far more apprehension).

“Will you help us in this endeavour?” Captain Oakenshield asked, with the impatient manner of a mother addressing a slow child.

And so she answered as smartly as she could, “I have yet to be informed as to what help I am being asked to provide.”

The captain made an impatient noise and stalked over to the window; his companion, with a more friendly mien, leaned forward in his armchair. “To put it frankly, Miss Baggins, we require a burglar. Someone who can slip into the estate, find the safe, retrieve the documents we believe to be inside, and slip out again. Preferably without being seen at all, but barring that, without being suspected. It’s a great deal to ask of a woman of the cloth, I’m aware,” he added, perhaps taking note of Bilbo’s gaping mouth, “But under the circumstances, we can think of no better alternative.”

At first Bilbo could make no reply; there were too many emotions warring in her breast to speak properly. “Is _this_  what use you have recommended me for?” she said at last, turning to Gandalf.

“As I recall, you were prodigiously talented at stealing sweets from my pockets,” was the infuriating reply.

“Yes, when I was _five years of age_ ,” she replied, before being distracted by a noise at the door.

Opening it caused something of a disturbance; a half-dozen of her guests fell at her feet, one on top of the other. The rest left standing (but leaning in such a precarious way that made it clear they had only better luck, not better balance, than their comrades) looked at her sheepishly.

“Just polishing up the doorknobs?” said one of the younger ones — Mr. Kíli, or perhaps Mr. Fíli.

“You may as well come in and hear the rest, since you’ve heard enough already,” Mr. Balin said.

One by one the sailors picked themselves off the floor and came in, shuffling awkwardly until the room seemed covered in navy blue wool and brass buttons.

“So, Miss Baggins, are we to wait all night for your answer?” Captain Oakenshield said, still staring out the window.

“Certainly not,” she said.

The captain turned to face her. “Well?”

“That _is_ my answer, Captain Oakenshield. ‘Certainly not.’”

This caused something of a stir. “Certainly _what_?” roared the captain, as his Company muttered amongst themselves.

“Bilbo — that is, Miss Baggins,” Gandalf said, leaning forward, “You must understand the seriousness of this matter. The good captain has long laboured under the assumption that his disinheritance was a legal and irrevocable affair; that is the only reason he has not come forward before now.”

“That, and we were on the far side of the world for no few years,” Mr. Balin admitted. “Makes it tricky.”

“He can tell a magistrate what he has told me tonight,” Bilbo said to Gandalf, though she watched the captain as she spoke. “If his claim is valid, then he will need no aid from the local vicar in breaking into other people’s houses.”

“But with the evidence contained in the safe, the matter may prove considerably easier,” Gandalf began, but Captain Oakenshield waved his hand, scowling formidably.

“The vicar is quite right — I fear I have wasted my time and yours, Miss Baggins. My thanks for the hospitality you have shown us this evening. It appears this quest is ours and ours alone — perhaps it was too much to expect a woman such as yourself to have the mettle we require.”

“Is that what you think? That my _mettle_ is what you have tested this evening?” Bilbo could feel her hands clench into fists, though she thought it would be more fruitful to go outside and strike the apple tree in the front garden than the captain’s granite face. “Allow me to inform you, Captain, that better men than you have asked harder tasks than this of women since the Lord crafted Eve from Adam's rib. No doubt you and men like you think this means our sex are merely tools made ‘to be of use,’ as my rector so eloquently recommended me. But you are mistaken — it is no weakness of _mettle_ that prompts me to refuse your request but a strength of mind that none of the fourteen men before me seem to possess.”

“Strength of mind, indeed,” Gandalf muttered, and Captain Oakenshield spared him an irritable glance before advancing on Bilbo, who stood firm — she would not be bullied, least of all in her own home.

“Then what reasons can you have for refusing to do what is right, _vicar_?” he said, disdain in his face. “I have seen men refuse their duty, and the same excuses are always trotted out; what excuse will you give, I wonder?”

“I do not owe you reasons for my refusal, Captain,” Bilbo replied, “And you are offensive in the extreme for assuming I would provide excuses and not reasons, were you owed them. For that insult, I will ask that you leave and take your Company with you. Gandalf, I bid you good night. Please see yourselves out.”

***

Of course that was not the end of her evening, for Gandalf — true to his nature, a confoundedly improper old man at all times — knocked on her chamber door not fifteen minutes later.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, coming out into the hallway rather than admit him inside.

Gandalf, of course, was unimpressed with the gravity of his misconduct. “You’re fully dressed under that rather ebullient dressing gown, I’m quite sure. They’ve all gone away, so perhaps you and I could sit and talk.”

“This cannot wait until a more civilised hour?” she grumbled, but already she was leading him back downstairs — without the benefit of a candle — and into the parlour where, indeed, all traces of the evening’s guests had been wiped clean.

“Well, it’s such uncivilised business,” Gandalf replied with some tartness of tone. “Do sit down, Bilbo, your very posture gives me a backache.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” she said, but sat in her armchair and allowed him to take a seat opposite.

“I have enough experience with both your mother and your honoured self to well believe _that_ ,” Gandalf said. “But if it is a question of his legitimacy, I wish to at least set your mind at ease on that account. I—“

“It is not,” Bilbo said, surprised. “I did not sense deception in him.”

“And you’ve got a talent for winkling it out,” Gandalf observed, “Which I put to good use tonight — yes, perhaps it is an indelicate term, but an accurate one all the same. He has his grandfather’s and father’s bearing, and countenance, and abominable pride; I think we can safely say, then, that your objections do not rest on thinking this some sort of silly scheme, concocted by an impostor.”

“Scheme, no,” Bilbo sighed. “Silly—“

“Then on what grounds _do_ you refuse?”

“On a great many, none of which I am in the mood to disclose to you at present,” said Bilbo. “But I hope you will believe that the _least_ of those grounds is his demand that I act as an accomplice to an act of — of — _larceny_ , for a stranger who has offered me nothing but threats and contempt in my own home.”

“Often the most desperate are the least gracious, it is true,” Gandalf said. “But you have ministered to those in need before.”

“I have ministered within the bounds of law,” she corrected. “Besides, what guarantee does he have that should he prove his legitimacy, that his lands and titles shall be restored to him? As far as I know, Lord Smaug was issued a new writ upon the death of Old Durin; outside of fairytales, long-lost heirs do not reclaim their rightful property even after they have revealed themselves.”

“So you believe the quest doomed before it begins. And that is your reason?”

“I have a better one, but I am tired and _extremely_ cross with you, Gandalf, and mourning the loss of almost every edible item in my home. You are my oldest friend, and so I will not charge you for emotional distress when I present to you my bill tomorrow, but rest assured,” she said, standing up and obliging him to do the same, “Even without that, it will be a hefty fine for you to pay.”

“Good gracious, Miss Baggins,” Gandalf said amiably, wandering toward the front door, “You are a cruel and capricious woman.”

“And the one who loves you best in all of England, don’t you forget that,” said Bilbo, and pushed Gandalf through the door.


	2. Chapter 2

If pressed then to give an answer, Bilbo would have admitted that she assumed this to be the end of the matter. It was, indeed, so far out of her experience that by the next day, she had all but forgotten the particulars of the incident other than as a series of outrages. The only compliment she could begrudge her guests of the previous evening was that the “swabbing,” whatever it entailed on ships, had been most effective in cleaning her land-locked house; the dishes were all sparkling, pots and pans scrubbed cleaner than ever she or Mrs. Gamgee had ever managed to get them, and everything was put away neatly — not quite in the places they had been before, but Bilbo had enough generosity of spirit to admit the new organisation suited her kitchen far better.

She spent most of her morning cataloguing everything absent from her pantry, larder, and cellars — no small undertaking, since nearly _everything_ was missing and the real deduction came in attempting to determine what had been there in the first place. The task was made all the more daunting by the fact that she had not even a pat of butter or — unthinkable — a loaf of bread left to fortify her.

Just as she was finishing up the sums on quite a tidy bill for Gandalf’s immediate payment, there was a knock on the door, followed immediately by “Miss Baggins! Miss Baggins, it’s us!”

Such a declaration was, of course, vague, but Bilbo recognised the voice and went to the door, opening it with a smile. “Good morning to you all,” she said.

“Good morning Miss Baggins,” said the trio in unison: the Bowman children, lanky Bain and his twinkle-eyed sisters Sigrid and Tilda. They were all in a neat line, blinking up at her innocently, and dearly as she loved them all it was enough to set her on guard.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” she inquired, folding her arms across her breast and affecting a suspicious countenance. “For you all three of you look far too pleased with _yourselves_ to be providing me with any to spare.”

“Be merciful, Miss Baggins,” called a voice from the lane. “They come bearing gifts, surely that’s not unwelcome?”

Bilbo looked up and her cross expression deepened, though it was hard to maintain in light of Bard Bowman’s broad grin as he followed his children up the path to her house. “It depends _entirely_ on what manner of gifts they are,” she replied severely. “Don’t think I've forgotten the presents Miss Tilda presented to me when I first arrived here.”

“Didn’t you like them?” Tilda inquired, as though she had not snuck three giant, warty toads into Bilbo’s biscuit jar as a protest against her beloved Radagast’s retirement as vicar and the subsequent arrival of “some southern lady who will stuff us all in starched collars and make us learn dreadful things.” Bilbo, who hailed from the gentleman-farmer gentry of the South, had laughed instead of shrieking and had forever secured Tilda’s loyalty by taking her out to the garden and letting all three toads free, following them about as they hunted for beetles and bugs. Unknown to Bilbo, Tilda tramped back home that night and pronounced the new lady vicar “quite an all right sort of person,” the highest compliment the youngest Bowman could bestow.

“Your friends are a great many things, though perhaps likable is not among the first adjectives I would have given,” Bilbo told her. “But they live happily enough amongst the lettuce and whenever I see them, I pay your compliments.”

“Please do,” Tilda said, bobbing a truly horrendous curtsy.

“So what gifts have you brought for me today? Some earthworms, perhaps — or a garter snake you found in the reeds?”

“Your suspicion does you no credit as a woman of the cloth,” Bard reproved, bending down to pick up the basket that the children had been standing in front of. “They are perfectly sound and wholesome pastries. We heard a dreadful rumour that you may have suffered a blow to the pantry, and came to offer our support.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Bilbo exclaimed, all pretence of sternness forgotten as she took the large hamper, fragrant with the smell of freshly-baked scones. “Your doing, I suspect?” she asked of Sigrid.

“Who else?” she replied. “Tilda can’t reach the cupboards yet, and surely you don’t think I’d let these two anywhere near the kitchen?”

“Such impertinence in the young,” Bard sighed, and suffered an elbow to his side from his eldest.

“Indeed, and their punishment shall be only one scone each while you and I have as many as we’d like,” Bilbo decided, ushering them all inside.

“But I’ve said nothing!” Bain protested. “And I’m a growing lad who needs his victuals.”

The debate lasted them all a good while; the children laid out excellent arguments for each scone they consumed, and their elders were forced to accept the wisdom of such learned reasoning. Soon enough, however, Tilda dragged Bain out into the garden to find her toady friends and Sigrid slipped off to the library.

“So who was it that passed on that scurrilous — and I will say, entirely true — rumour about my pantry?” Bilbo said, pouring Bard another cup of tea.

Her guest, for his part, just grinned. Aside from Gandalf, Bard Bowman was Bilbo’s closest friend here in Laketown; in romance stories his widowed status and her spinsterhood might have conspired to make them fall in love. They were instead easy comrades, Bilbo finding in Bard something so like a brother that she often forgot their shared initials did not indicate any familial ties.

The Bowman family had been, in better times, almost the equal to the house of Durin in wealth and regard, if not in status; Dale Abbey was happily situated on the rolling green hills south of Laketown. But Bard’s great-grandfather had been a spendthrift and his grandfather a gambler, and Bard’s father had made the painful decision to remove the family from the estate and let it out to more prosperous visitors. The Bowmans now resided in a cottage not far from the vicarage, and Bard himself worked as a solicitor, a scandalous fall to a profession for someone whose ancestors had collected tithes from a third of the county. But Bard did not appear bothered by his family’s downfall, though perhaps he only seemed that way because so much of their time together consisted of him teasing her.

“I cannot reveal my sources to the enemy,” he said, scooping a healthy spoonful of sugar into his cup. Bilbo only shuddered; under normal circumstances she might protest his use of so much, but in truth the Bowpeople (as Tilda referred to her family en masse) had provided her with this as well, along with a large pat of butter and even a small jug of cream.

“For an enemy, I am remarkably hospitable,” she observed, buttering another scone. “When did we declare war? I quite forget.”

“Oh, nothing official has been declared,” Bard said, “But it’s inevitable, since my new tenants are the ones who so egregiously offended you last night. You can hardly see me as anything but combatant in the war on your sensibilities.”

“Your new tenants — Bard, you _didn’t_ ,” she exclaimed. “You’ve let Dale Abbey to — that _rabble_?”

“Miss Baggins, you sound positively scandalised,” Bard crowed, with what was far too gleeful an expression for this hour of the morning. “Should I say something that will soothe your ruffled feathers, such as ‘if only I’d known that they were such ruffians who would take every edible crumb from our dear vicar’s larder, I would have reconsidered’?”

“You would have leased to them all the faster, and laughed all the louder, I have no doubt,” Bilbo said primly. “But — this means they are to stay here for some time.”

“It’s an open-ended lease. And I’m glad of it; there’ve been no tenants since last summer, and would you believe, the fool captain paid me in _advance_?”

“And did they tell you their business here?”

To this, Bard gave a dismissive shrug, nearly slopping his tea. “Something about a respite for his crew — they’ve been discharged for the moment. Napoleon’s not made his move yet, but I’ve no doubt the whole lot will disappear the moment he does. But it’s an odd venue for a lot of sailors to take their holidays, I’ll admit. Be interesting to see what his Lordship says of them.”

“‘Interesting’ isn’t the word I’d use,” Bilbo sighed. She debated whether to tell him more; but Tilda came in with a bloody knee and a stricken brother, and the chance was lost.

***

After sending the Bowmans home, Bilbo prepared to set off for Gandalf’s rectory on the far side of town; but she had not yet laced her boots when there was another knock on the door. “Sigrid, I told you to simply take the books home with—“ she started as she opened the door.

But it was not Sigrid. Instead Captain Oakenshield stood in her doorway, looking every bit as tall and grim and uncomfortable as he had the night previous. “Good morning,” he said, as though challenging the very notion that such mornings were possible.

“Ah. I see it wasn’t a nightmare,” Bilbo said, and did not open the door any wider. This had the very gratifying effect of making the captain scowl even more deeply — quite an appealing look, in its way, though doubtless it was intended to strike fear and obedience into his crew. Being not of a nautical persuasion, Bilbo was only amused.

But credit to his training, the captain merely replied, “Indeed. I am given to understand by the rector that you have been put out somewhat by our presence last evening. Since the Company’s behaviour is my responsibility, I would be honoured if you allowed me to compensate you for the inconvenience we may have caused.” And he pulled from his breast pocket a slim case, opening it and brandishing a bank note. 

Bilbo glared at it. “Well, you certainly have the arrogance of nobility about you,” she said, and began to shut the door. “Bid you good day, Captain.”

A boot was thrust into the gap, and Bilbo gave good consideration as to whether or not she should simply keep pushing the door closed. Instead she transferred her glare to the captain’s face, the owner of which at least had enough presence of mind to remove his foot. “I have offended you,” he guessed.

“To say the least,” Bilbo assured him.

“And pray,” sighed Captain Oakenshield, “Enlighten me as to how. I have cost you money; I have offered to reimburse you; you have refused the payment but taken instead the offence, which I never offered in the first place.”

“You did not cost me _money_ , Captain, and to wave about a — goodness gracious, is that a fifty-pound note? I’ve never seen one before — as though you were settling your credit with a local… haberdasher,” she settled on, for truly his uniform was so new and painfully neat that she could scarce look elsewhere but at his over-starched cravat, “Ignores the traditions of the very place you wish to claim lordship over.”

At this, Captain Oakenshield tensed. “Madam,” he hissed, “The events of which we spoke last night were uttered in confidence. I would prefer you not broadcast it about the neighbourhood.”

Bilbo did open the door wider then, to lean out and peer with great exaggeration first to her left, then to her right. “Which neighbours concern you precisely?” she inquired. “I am alight with curiosity.”

She was rewarded with another scowl. “If you would please keep your comments about my endeavour to yourself, I am sure I would be much obliged to you, Miss Baggins,” he growled.

“Yes, fifty pounds worth of obliged, I see,” she sniffed. “But my point still stands — you know nothing of this world.”

“And you do.”

“I have spent all my life in the country — you might call me an expert in their dealings,” she said. “And what you have truly offended is the foundation upon which this country life is based. As I said, you did not cost me _money_ , captain, you cost me _food_.”

“When last I was on land, money could pay for food. Has this changed?”

“And once again, you compound your ignorance with arrogance. There can be no doubt of your lineage, at least.” At his gathering stormcloud of a face, she finally gave up and stepped aside. “Come in, and we shall cease flapping at each other on the doorstep like two old women.”

They sat themselves down uncomfortably in the dining room, Bilbo’s accounts for Gandalf still scattered on the table between them. “The vicar of a parish has any number of duties,” she told him, “But one of them — and I will admit there are those in the Church who would claim it chief amongst them — is the collection of tithes. For a vicar beholden to a town parish, they are merely the tithes due the church. For one such as myself, whose living comes from Lord Smaug’s estate,” and she beamed happily at Captain Oakenshield’s clenched jaw, “And is presided over by a rectory, the collection is on Gandalf’s behalf as well. And it is not in coin and Bank of England notes that we are paid.”

“Then — how?” For the first time since Bilbo met him, the captain looked as though he did not already know the answer.

“In eggs, and wheat, and apples. I am paid in fresh-baked scones and the butter churned by young children in their parents’ dairy huts, or in a leg of mutton when an old ewe is slaughtered. I am paid thusly, and furthermore, so is the baron of Erebor Park — his wealth comes from the land his tenants farm for him. Bank notes are of little currency here,” she added, pleased with herself for the play on words.

“Then how am I to feed my officers and crew, if not with money? Mr. Bowman accepted payment without a lecture on the local economy.”

“Because Mr. Bowman is your landlord, and as such it is his job to provide Dale Abbey with what you require. But there is a difference, I think you will agree, between your relationship with him and your relationship with me.”

“I have no relationship with you,” Captain Oakenshield pointed out.

“Yes, a happy circumstance for all concerned. My point is that while I will be able to buy a few necessities with what coin I have, it is quite impossible for me to go around to my parishioners with a fifty pound note and expect anything but bafflement.”

“So what is to be done, then?” asked the captain, and once again there was a note of uncertainty in his voice that was quite pleasing. “For I still have a duty, and you have refused the only method by which I know of discharging it.”

“What is to be done is that I will carry on as I always have,” Bilbo informed him, rising to her feet. “Gandalf has in his stores ample food to repay me for your imposition, and at any rate I have a monthly rota of farmers and tenants that I call upon, both for collections and for conversation, though it is unclear which they dread more.” She sighed as this witticism sailed over the captain’s head. “If you still feel a need to discharge, then you may accompany me.”

The captain, who had risen to his feet with her, made a face like he’d bitten down on a rotten apple. “With pleasure,” he ground out.

“Excellent,” she said. “I shall retrieve my coat and basket.”

***

Gandalf was, unsurprisingly, not at home. “He rarely is,” Bilbo informed Captain Oakenshield, leaving her missive with Gandalf’s long-suffering housekeeper.

“No doubt seeing to clerical matters,” the captain said.

Bilbo did not trouble to repress her laugh over that.

They visited the Trollshaw cottage first, and she spared a moment, struggling with the rusted lock at the gate, to regret that these should be the first parishioners Captain Oakenshield would meet. The three brothers had not, so far as she had been able to determine, been devout churchgoers during Mr. Radagast’s tenure as vicar, but they had been amongst the most vocal objectors to the living going to some flibbertigibbet lady from the South with more dresses than sense. She had never truly won them over, and though she was incalculably fond of them, with their honest dislike and blatant disregard for the dignity of her office, it was perhaps an unfortunate first impression for any new arrival to the parish, much less one who hoped to one day call himself their master.

But that could not be helped. The eldest Trollshaw was still laid up with an injury from the week previous, and Dr. Elrond had informed Bilbo a few days ago of his suspicion that Bert had not been minding the prescription of bedrest. As vicar — approved of or not — Bilbo had an obligation to see to her flock.

Sure enough, Bert was found nowhere within the cottage but was instead limping about swearing at a row of cabbages out back. He caught sight of her as she came out the back door; even from this distance she could see his scowl. “Tom’ll have a barrel of turnips for you next week and not before,” he said, waving his walking-stick at her in a manner that could either be threatening or simply irritable.

“As delightful as the thought of an entire barrel of turnips is, Bert, I’m here to see _you_.”

“You can see me just fine.”

Having perfected her manner of dealing with the Trollshaw brothers, Bilbo folded her hands around the handle of her basket and waited. It had the desired effect; Bert muttered a few more oaths but hobbled back into the cottage, collapsing heavily on a sturdy chair and putting up his injured leg with a groan. It was then that he caught sight of the captain, who had stationed himself near the front door in what seemed like an attempt to keep his uniform clean. “Seems you were hoping we’d be not at home, lady-vicar,” Bert grunted, thrusting his chin toward the intruder. “Looking for a spot out of the way?”

Captain Oakenshield, understanding full well the twinkle in Bert’s eye, shifted his stance as though to issue a challenge. But Bilbo sat herself down on the chair nearest Bert's leg and began unwrapping the dirty bandage covering his ankle, which redirected the old farmer’s attention.

“Trust you to have the same delicate touch old Clodfoot did,” he grumbled, but he stayed still while Bilbo examined the wound. It looked serious enough; a deep gash delivered by his ox (and no doubt well-deserved, considering Bert's temper). But the scabbing had already begun, and there was no sight or smell of infection.

“I’ve known children with broken arms who complain less than you do, Bert,” Bilbo said serenely, fetching a clean cloth out of her basket. “Is it too much to expect you’ve a full kettle, or shall I ask my companion to fetch a bucket from the well?”

“He’d soil his lovely boots, lady-vicar, and then how could you tell he was Quality?” Bert sniffed. “And I don’t know what you’re bothering with the kettle for. Not offering you tea nor cakes today.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” she replied. “Your cakes are truly dreadful.”

That at least made Bert laugh, a wheezing, sniffling sound that was not much practised. “It’s the squirrel dung what we puts into it, special flavouring for visitors. So you going to introduce me to that nice pair of boots, or shall I consider myself too poorly shod?”

“If your strength is up to it,” Bilbo said, standing up to heat the kettle. “Captain, this is Bert Trollshaw, tenant of Erebor Park and eldest brother to William and Tom, who are—“

“Who are tilling the good lands of Erebor Park at this very moment,” Bert interrupted, shifting restlessly in his seat, “And will be lucky sons of — begging your pardon very much, lady-vicar — if they get home before dark.”

“Bert, this is Captain Oakenshield, late of His Majesty’s Navy, current resident of Dale Abbey.”

“Sir,” Captain Oakenshield said dubiously.

“Ooh, a ‘sir’ out of him, I’m honoured indeed,” Bert said, making a show of doffing an invisible cap.

Bert’s leg was cleaned and rewrapped, Bilbo attempting to extract from Bert a promise that he would try to stay off his leg for the rest of the day.

“Not likely, lady-vicar,” Bert said, heaving himself to his feet even as they went to the door. “With my brothers chained to the park today and most of tomorrow, someone’s got to see to our meagre lot. Unless your friend there wants to risk his boots helping me with the manure.”

“Then I’ll simply have to come back tomorrow and see to your injury all over again,” Bilbo threatened.

“God’s a vindictive creature, if he’s plagued me with you,” Bert growled, and stomped out the back door without taking his leave.

The remaining calls were more pleasant, though perhaps that could only be said for Bilbo herself; certainly the captain looked either bored or constipated for most of the afternoon. There were several cottagers along the lane, and Bilbo emerged from the Woolfarther’s home richer by a few pounds of carrots and potatoes, which she was glad to give Captain Oakenshield to carry.

Their last stop of the day was at the Proudfoots’, and Bilbo comforted herself that if Captain Oakenshield did not have a good first impression of her parishioners, he would at least have an excellent last impression. Mrs. Proudfoot was an amiable, apple-cheeked woman who was always ready with a laugh or a clever remark; her husband had the same good cheer, and every visit to their home left Bilbo in a better frame of mind than when she had come. The mistress of the house was glad to accept some of the potatoes and carrots and even gladder to offer them tea. “It’ll be a welcome break from this lot,” she said, flapping her hand at the window, where outside Bilbo could see several of the eight Proudfoot children chasing their put-upon sheepdog. Mrs. Proudfoot laughed at the story Bilbo told of her surprise visitors the evening before, and took great pleasure in berating her newest acquaintance for the loutish behaviour of his officers and crew.

“I was not aware they had descended upon her without her previous knowledge or invitation,” Captain Oakenshield said, gripping his teacup with such force Bilbo was surprised that it did not shatter in his hands. “Mr. Gandalf had lead me to believe she was our willing host.”

“Mr. Gandalf, you will soon learn, is given to leading people to believe a great many things,” Bilbo said.

“Besides, aware or not makes no difference, Captain — you’re the one responsible for their misconduct,” Mrs. Proudfoot reproved with a broad smile. “I know the rules better than most; my brother’s a topman on the _Euryalus_ , and many an officer’s been hauled back to the ship by the scruff of his neck by his captain.”

“The _Euryalus_?” Captain Oakenshield said, surprised. “I know that ship well; it’s a fine frigate.”

“My brother’d like us all to believe he’s responsible for every line of it, so I’ll pass along your compliments,” Mrs. Proudfoot laughed.

The captain seemed in a thoughtful mood as they made their way back to her vicarage in the lengthening shadows. As the church spire came into view, he said suddenly, “You collect tithes from some, then, simply to redistribute amongst the others?”

“From anyone else, that would sound precariously near a compliment on my good nature and generosity,” Bilbo said, “But I presume to know you well enough to doubt that was your meaning. Besides, I didn’t redistribute _all_ my tithes — you’re still carrying quite a few carrots and potatoes.”

Captain Oakenshield scowled. “What I meant was — you seemed to be in no hurry today to replenish your pantry with these calls.”

“That is because you have once again failed to grasp something quite important,” Bilbo informed him, as the packed dirt turned to cobblestone under their feet, “Which is that my pantry does not provide for _me_.”

The captain opened his mouth as though to pose a question, before closing it again.

Bilbo took pity. “Did you not think to wonder why I answered that knock on my door last night? Why I allowed all twelve of your men — as well as your honoured self — into my home at such a late hour? A single woman of middling rank and importance, providing for so many people to dine at her expense — you never thought it strange?”

“I thought at first—“

“Yes, you thought at first Gandalf had informed me beforehand. But once you learned the truth, you did not think on it?”

“I did not,” the captain admitted.

“I'm not surprised,” Bilbo told him. “But to answer the question you it did not occur to you to ask: it is because _most_ evenings there is a knock on my door, and someone in need of good food and a warm hearth. I’ll admit that I usually do not find a baker’s dozen of them, but last night was not the first time I’ve found my stores depleted by hungry visitors.”

“And yet you are not angry with _them_ , those who have come before,” Captain Oakenshield said, opening the gate to her garden for her.

“And I leave it to you to work out why, Captain,” she said, relieving him of his satchels. “Many thanks for your work here today, and be sure to arrive tomorrow no later than eleven, as we have a good deal farther to walk.”

“Tomorrow?” he replied, hands still outstretched.

Bilbo smiled. “Of course. I told you before, I have a monthly rota. If you _truly_ wish to discharge your debt, your assistance will be required for the duration — meaning I still have claim on the pleasure of your company for another twenty-nine days, from mid-morning until teatime. I bid you good evening.”

She was able to make her way up through the garden and into her house before he had formulated a response.

***

As it was Wednesday evening, she made haste to put away the food and change her dress; she and Mr. Radagast had a standing supper appointment, and she made sure to always arrive early, since more often than not he had forgotten altogether and was busy tending his garden or fussing over a wild animal he had found injured in the hedgerows.

Sure enough, when she knocked on the cottage door there was no answer; she let herself in and went down the hallway until she arrived at the kitchen. There sat Radagast at the table, making clucking noises at a hedgehog that looked far from well.

“Ah, Bilbo,” he said, “I don’t suppose you have any castor oil about you?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, and took care not to ask why he needed it. Nor did he offer an explanation; instead he rummaged in one of the dozens of deep shelves that lined one wall of the kitchen, usually reserved for cooking implements and ingredients but in Radagast’s house full of rather more exotic supplies. He crowed in triumph and scuttled back; after a moment’s work he had poured half the bottle of whatever cure he had found down the poor creature’s throat. There was a startling squeak from the table, and the hedgehog rolled onto its feet, once more bright-eyed and sniffing the air curiously.

“There you are, and next time stay out of my mushrooms,” Radagast scolded, scooping the animal off the table and depositing it outside by means of the kitchen door. 

Bilbo sighed, and folded her arms in as close an approximation to admonishing as she could muster. “Have you forgotten the day again?”

“What? No, of course not. It’s Tuesday. Or possibly Thursday. One of the days that starts with a T, of that I am certain.”

“It is the day that starts with a W, my dear friend, and you have not cooked anything for me to eat, have you? _Again_ ,” she added, for this had happened twice before in the past three months. She might worry about him and his rather eccentric ideas about — everything — but Gandalf, not to mention the rest of the town, had assured her that Radagast had always been like this, even as a young man. Besides, there was a shrewd understanding of the town and its environs hidden in his eccentricities, and he had an uncanny ability to answer questions she did not think to ask. She often wondered what had prompted him to retire from the vicarage to take up the perpetual curacy, but he had never volunteered the information.

Radagast looked equal parts appalled and indignant. “It can’t possibly be Wednesday _again_ ,” he protested. “I’m quite sure they’re coming around faster, you know.”

“They may well be,” said Bilbo, and went to his pantry to see what she could scavenge, “But the good Lord in Heaven hasn’t sent us an extra Wednesday just to throw us into confusion. Other things,” she muttered, pulling down a block of cheese and some parsnips, “Perhaps, but not Wednesdays. I promise you.”

They put together an odd meal of buttered parsnips, cheese and bread, and fried mushrooms that Radagast assured her were not poisonous in the least. Bilbo had never been offered the meat of any animal while dining at Greenwood Cottage; once when he and Gandalf had come to visit her for a clerical breakfast, she had served them bacon. “Oh, dear, I had wondered where poor old Victor had gone to,” Radagast had sighed, staring woefully at the plate. Neither she nor Gandalf had touched it, and she still found it difficult to eat ham.

The conversation was likewise odd, for Radagast always seemed to have one half of his mind devoted to the conversation at hand and one half wandering along the paths and little rivers of the town. “I saw a fine set of horses pulling a cart up to Dale Abbey,” he said, nibbling on a bit of cheese. “I do believe Bard has found some new tenants.”

“He has. It’s a Company of sailors. Gandalf knows their captain, a Mr. Oakenshield.”

“I should think he does,” Radagast snorted, though he did not give reason for it. “Well, the spring and summer should be lively enough with them here.  Are any of them married? Should you counsel the young women of the parish against the dangers of the wind-chafed cheek and roguish smile of the nautical man?”

“You been reading those women’s novels again, haven't you?” Bilbo said. “I suspect the girls in Laketown will be well-governed by their mothers in this; these sailors seem a rather rough lot, even the officers.”

“You mean, even the captain,” said Radagast, helping himself to another serving of mushrooms.

“I do wish you’d stop reading my thoughts, Radagast, it’s irritating enough when Gandalf does it, and he’s known me since I was in swaddling clothes.”

“I’m sure you were a very sweet child, and therefore reading your thoughts at that age would have been no great task. Besides, I knew the captain’s grandfather — Old Durin was the very definition of a tough lot.”

“Then — you know who Captain Oakenshield is?” It hardly seemed likely; Radagast had taken the vicarage only a few years before the old baron had died, long after Thrain Durin had left, and as far as Bilbo understood no one in Laketown had known so much as the maiden name of Mrs. Durin, or the names of any of the resulting children.

“Of course. Though I suppose no one else does, and come to think of it Gandalf did swear me to secrecy.” Radagast did not seem terribly concerned at his own indiscretion. “But clearly he’s told you, or told you enough to suspect. Besides, we men of the cloth must keep each other apprised.”

“Indeed we must,” Bilbo said. “At any rate, I doubt they will remain for more than a few weeks. Hopefully whatever has brought them here will not keep them here overlong.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll find ample diversions in our sleepy little hamlet,” Radagast said. “I for one am most particularly looking forward to the baron’s return — when is he due back?”

“Next Wednesday, I believe,” Bilbo said, with a sinking sensation. In all this whirligig, she had almost forgotten the reality of the baron himself, Lord John Smaug of Erebor.

It did not pay to forget him.

In most cases where a lord holds a living on his property, the appointment finds its way to a less prosperous member of that worthy’s family, or a close friend in need of steady income and gentle occupation. Such was the custom and tradition of the country, long cherished. In this, as in many things, Bilbo had found herself an exception, being neither a relation nor a friend of the Baron when she received the letter summoning her to Laketown four years ago. She had known him — she vividly remembered meeting the new Lord Smaug during her mother’s last visit to Laketown — but she had put down her appointment to Gandalf’s affection for her and the Baron’s lack of acquaintance in reduced circumstances.

There was not, as might be generally expected, a rapport between master and vicar. Despite Bilbo’s gregariousness and the Baron’s infamous charm, she could not warm to him. Part of it was simply his countenance; he had a strange ageless face, though he had celebrated his fiftieth birthday not long ago, and a grace of movement that seemed reptilian rather than refined. Even if the Baron had been the soul of hospitality and everything that was agreeable, however, Bilbo had ample reason to find him wanting. Erebor Park was wealthy beyond measure, yet had poor and hungry tenants whose over-reliance on the Church’s goodwill could not be ascribed to their indolence or poor judgement. Smaug seemed amused by the suffering of those beneath him; he often spoke with relish of the possibility of turning tenants out of their homes or pressing charges against freeholders suspected of taking slightly more than their due. With such a man as that, no gentility of manner could have saved him from Bilbo's dislike.

There was also the memory of their first meeting: a child's memory, perhaps, and not reliable, but it was impossible for Bilbo to look upon the older baron now without recalling the younger baron then. She still remembered the crack of the shot and the smell of gunpowder, and the silence that had come after.

In such circumstances as these — where the vicar and the master are not inclined toward comradeship — it was not uncommon for a rift to form between county seat and parish, and for relations to cool. No doubt Gandalf had expected it in choosing her; though Bilbo thought that he had expected rather more than a mere rift and cooling. A stranger from the kindly South, after all, could be just the champion of the common folk that Laketown so needed. The living she held at Erebor Park was for life; none but the archbishop himself had power to remove her (and even then it would be a difficult endeavour), and her parents' estate in ____shire meant she need never rely on a salary to keep her in line with the baron's wishes. There might be ways for an unconventional lady vicar to exercise her power — ways denied even to a venerable rector, whose attachment to the Baron was tenuous at best. Gandalf could not be the people’s hero, and so he had looked for someone who could wield the sword against the dragon on the mountain.

But Bilbo was no hero. She had lived long enough in the world to have seen specimens like Smaug before. In such creatures, force was met only with greater force, and to come to Smaug with a sword would have done little but enrage him further into his iniquities. The common folk of Laketown needed a helpmeet more than a champion; and so she continued to dine in the grand, golden rooms of Erebor, using her influence to persuade rather than confront. She had done good, of that she was certain; no tenant had been turned out of their cottage in three years, and the mothers and wives in her parish had begun to speak with hope for the future. It was not the mighty parable of St. George, however, and she knew that Gandalf had grown restless under the slow progress of patience.

The rector’s part in this particular endeavour seemed, then, all too clear. Denied his hero, he had found instead a revolutionary. Bilbo put down her knife and fork, her hands suddenly shaking — for it was only at this moment that she realised what was truly at stake. 

Smaug would suffer no rival, of that she was certain; the moment he understood Captain Oakenshield’s plans he would move not just to thwart him, but crush him utterly. And his wrath would not end with the destruction of the Company; he would seek out anyone he deemed a threat. Gandalf would fall — as would she. Even if she were to go to Smaug and betray the confidence of the captain (and everything in her soul rebelled at the very thought), she knew with a certain dread that it would not save her. 

To be discovered was to be destroyed, and the downfall of Oakenshield’s Company would surely take her down with it.

“Another blasted Wednesday,” Radagast sighed. “Will we never be rid of them?”

That, at least, recalled her to the present, and she found in herself the ability to laugh at Radagast’s irritation. “I am sorry they plague you so, but not in the least sorry that they afford me with your company.” It was true; for the moment she was able to put aside her own fears, which seemed so unreal in this warmly-lit kitchen smelling of parsnips and mushrooms.

“I’m far too old to be flattered so easily, and yet I find myself very flattered indeed,” replied her companion. “And now tell me, for I assume you’ve met this Captain Oakenshield — what is he like?”

“He is not nearly so given to flattery,” Bilbo said. “And I am altogether much less likely to enjoy his company than yours, for all that I shall endure more of it.”

“But why should that be?” Radagast asked, and Bilbo recounted the story of two evenings previous, omitting certain details; best to let Gandalf decide how much of Captain Oakenshield’s plans he wished Radagast to know. 

Abbreviated as it was, the tale seemed to entertain Radagast greatly, and at the end even Bilbo was laughing through the story of Bert and his leg. “Poor Clodfoot," Radagast said, clucking his tongue over the ox's behavior. "The Trollshaws really don’t have any business dealing with oxen. Bert’s lucky to have escaped with with his life.”

“Dr. Elrond said something along the same lines, I believe.”

“At any rate, do you think this captain of yours will hold up his end of the bargain? Spending four or five hours a day walking about the countryside may not be an agreeable pastime for a navy man, no matter how pleasant the company.”

“He’s no captain of mine,” Bilbo corrected. “But yes, I’m afraid he will. More’s the pity — remember, my dear friend, that I shall have to be in his company for every moment he is in mine.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next day as the clock chimed eleven, she opened the door to find no captain, but the two young men she recalled as part of the nautical throng on Tuesday. “At your service, Miss Baggins,” said the dark-haired one, with a quick bow. “Captain Oakenshield sends his regrets that he is unable to make his appointment with you today, and has sent us in his stead.”

“Messrs. Fíli and… Kíli, I believe,” she said, tentatively. “A pleasure to see you once more, though I will admit the pleasure is unexpected.”

“Actually he’s Kíli, I’m Fíli,” said the fair-haired one. “And now that we’re landlocked once again, I suppose it’s properly Mr. Eredson and Mr. Kíli Eredson.”

“So difficult to remember propriety,” said the other cheerfully. “So perhaps it’s best to continue as you’ve begun. After all, we’re hardly of age to insist on anything.”

“Much less propriety,” his brother added.

“Which we never would in the first place.”

“You’re brothers?” Bilbo asked.

“Can’t you see the family resemblance?” asked Mr. Fíli, giving an affect of great surprise, poorly acted. “Sometimes when I need a shave and have not got a mirror at hand, I just look at my brother for reference.”

“And I tell him what a right pillock he looks.”

“And then I give him a thumping.”

“So it works out well.”

“I am beginning to suspect your captain sent you in his stead in the hopes I would be charmed enough by your comedy stylings not to notice his absence.”

“I must lodge my objection, Miss Baggins,” Mr. Kíli said. “In all the books I’ve read, the clergy are slow and stupid, very easy to fool. You’re flouting every narrative tradition.”

“What books have _you_ ever read?” his brother demanded of him, before turning back to her. “But you are correct, Miss Baggins — our captain-uncle—“

“Or uncle-captain, if you’d prefer—“

“Sent us off to keep you better company than he could himself, as I’m sure you will discover in short order.”

“If you’ve not already discovered it,” said Mr. Kíli. “After all, Uncle was never slow to show his charms.”

“Or lack thereof.”

“I’m surprised to hear that Captain Oakenshield is your uncle,” Bilbo confessed. It hardly seemed credible, though Mr. Kíli had the captain’s colouring and Mr. Fíli his strong profile. But in all other particulars they seemed entirely alien, the two youths to the surly captain.

“I’d make another remark about the resemblance, but it doesn’t do to repeat a witticism twice in five minutes,” said Mr. Fíli.

“It does not, that’s quite true,” Bilbo said. “Well, while I will happily admit to being charmed, I do in fact have rounds to make. You will therefore please follow me.”

They made a rather jolly party — the young Messrs. Eredson were as awe-inspiring to the young people on her rounds as Captain Oakenshield had been the day before, but where the captain had merely ignored any inquisitive stares, his lieutenants would crouch down to answer the earnest questions put to them. Inevitably each visit ended with either Mr. Fíli or Mr. Kíli running around with one or more children attached, pretending to be a great ship on the stormy sea, while Bilbo got on with the slightly more necessary work of speaking with the mothers and collecting what tithes she could. Even Bert Trollshaw found them diverting, and he allowed Bilbo to examine his leg with somewhat less ill grace than he had yesterday.

“They liven things up, that’s sure,” he said, thrusting a dirty sack full of onions at her. The Eredsons had already gone without, and no doubt Bert meant for her to fear for her dress by accepting. But she had already suffered a handprint of mud along the hem from Mrs. Sackville’s son, so took the onions without a qualm. 

“They do,” she said.

Bert snorted and flapped his hand toward the north, where Erebor Castle stood on its mountain. “What d’you think the baron will think of them?”

Bilbo smiled, though her face felt strange with the effort of it. “Let us hope he finds them lively, too,” she replied, and thanked Bert for the onions.

* * *

Bilbo made sure to admonish the young Messrs. Eredson upon their departure that evening, for despite their good humour, it was not they who needed to discharge their captain’s debt. The agreed most earnestly, with several extravagant promises to present Captain Oakenshield to her the following morning clapped in irons, as was apparently the custom upon the sea.

With all that, it should not have surprised her to open the door the following morning to the behatted gentleman she recalled having such excellent aim with her hard boiled eggs.

“James Bofur, Bosun of the HMS _Longbeard_ , most extremely and enthusiastically at your service,” said he, sweeping off the offending chapeau and bowing low.

“To be sure,” Bilbo said, wishing that she could keep the displeased expression on her face, but it was a trying endeavour; he had dimples, it turned out, and that had always been a fatal weakness of hers. “I was under the impression I had left very specific instructions to the young Mr. Eredson and his brother.”

“Specific, yes, they were undoubtedly that. But I have been charged to convey the captain’s particular regrets that he is unable to accompany you on your rounds today, and his assurances that you will like me much better than him regardless.”

“He makes bold to know me so well,” Bilbo said, though she thought the captain might have a touch of the clairvoyant about him.

“Not hardly,” Mr. Bofur replied. “ _Everyone_ likes me better than the captain.”

“It’s not a terribly high bar to clear, I’m afraid.” Bilbo stepped within briefly to take up her coat from its peg, frowning down at the small, battered brown notebook she had set down next to her basket, odd bits of paper sticking out and increasing the girth so that the little book was now held closed by a length of blue ribbon. 

She sighed, and reached for the basket, and left the book where it was. “Shall we, then, Mr. Bofur?” she said as she closed her front door.

“With the utmost of pleasure, Miss Baggins,” replied he, and made a great show of opening the gate for her.

“I must confess to being curious about one thing,” she said as they made their way down the lane.

“Only one, Miss Baggins? You seem a bright-eyed personage; it’d be a shame to waste your mind on just one curiosity at a time.”

“It’s a wonder you ever left your home unmarried, with charm like that,” she replied, but could hardly help the curl at the corner of her mouth. “My curiosity is this: why are you here?”

“I wouldn’t think a clergywoman such as yourself would need help from a sailor to ask such a weighty question as that,” said Mr. Bofur. “But I’m always ready for some theological debate. Chaplain Balin makes sure we all learn our liturgies every Sunday, on shore or off.”

“Your devotion does you great credit — but I meant in a more specific sense. I understand Captain Oakenshield’s reasons, and the Messrs. Eredsons’ presence at their uncle’s side is quite understandable. But surely the rest of you have lives of your own, duties on land to friends and family. Why do you remain with your captain?”

“Is that a singular pronoun, or plural?” Mr. Bofur inquired. “For I cannot speak for anyone but myself.”

“Then speak for yourself, if you would be so kind.”

Instead Mr. Bofur fell silent — not out of an inclination to be contrary, it was clear, nor out of a disregard for her question. His silence was contemplative, and Bilbo felt no compulsion to urge him to an answer. Indeed, they visited two houses, collecting three jars of honey and a lovely bunch of radishes, before at last Mr. Bofur cleared his throat.

“It’s strange — here I was set to chastise you for thinking all of the captain’s men might have the same reason for staying by his side for this latest adventure,” he began, “But the more I think on it, the more I realise even my own reasons change from moment to moment, each of them getting a turn as the most important. At this particular moment, for example, I’ve come with him because the countryside is full of fresh air, good food, and even better company.” And he leaned over the fence along the path, plucking from a bush a lovely pink pansy, which he offered her with another dimpled smile.

“Very pretty,” Bilbo said approvingly, and took it. “But what of the other reasons?”

“Loyalty, I’ll be sure to say next, as that’s what makes me sound brave and upright as ever an Irish sailor can when he stands on English soil. Habit, that comes after, for I’d like to impress you also with my honesty — I’ve served with the captain since he was naught but a midshipman in ill-fitting trousers.”

There was another silence, punctuated by another house (where Mr. Bofur’s hat was examined solemnly by both a toddler and an ageing sheepdog, and Bilbo dropped off a jar of honey). Once they resumed their journey, Bilbo prompted, “And are there any other reasons?”

“Vengeance,” replied he, “Because I’d like to give myself an air of mystery.”

“Vengeance? What do you mean?”

“That’s the mystery, lass. We’re none of us ready to tell that tale quite yet.”

* * *

The following day was a Saturday; Bilbo, being by both nature and profession an early riser, was already at her desk when the sun came up over the horizon. Her industry was not entirely admirable, since the task at hand was writing tomorrow’s sermon — a task she had neglected in the confusion of the past few days.

In usual circumstances, her remedy for an unwritten sermon would be simply to select one of the many ready-made sermons in the liturgical books lining the top shelf in her library. Certainly there was no shortage to choose from; ones left over from the previous vicars’ residency mingled with the dozen or so gifts from acquaintances and relations upon her taking orders, with a few poor tomes that she had taken pity on at jumble sales. It was the expected thing, in fact, for a proper vicar to recite the liturgical lessons, and not seek  to further intrude into the spiritual lives of the parishioners by reading something of their own creation.

However, since her arrival in Laketown and her undertaking of her office, Bilbo had discovered in herself an affinity for writing. Whether or not her parishioners enjoyed it was another matter, and not one she had felt brave enough to inquire into. However, she did notice that fewer of them fell asleep during her original compositions than did when she read from the _Book of Certain Sermons_.

She had additional reason to write this week; the past few days had spun her parish and her life about like a top, and with this dizziness in mind she set her quill to write a sermon that would, perhaps, stick in the minds of her newest congregants. As the dawn gave way to early morning, Bilbo finished the work to her own satisfaction and rewarded herself with a healthy breakfast and a soothing cup of tea. She thought that this might be — if not precisely well received — at least closely attended to.

As she finished her second scone and third cup of tea, however, a grim thought seized her. She had sent Mr. Bofur away yesterday evening with no specific exhortation, since she would make no rounds today; she simply assumed, in the way she was quickly learning was quite foolish, that the Company would attend her service, and she could speak to the captain from the comfort of her own pulpit.

But suppose they didn’t? Mr. Bofur had mentioned that Mr. Balin had been, and presumably still was, their chaplain; what if instead of doing their duty to the town, they simply took to the small family chapel on the Dale property? For that matter, they might just as soon attend Gandalf’s services at the slightly grander Laketown Church rather than her own, more humble Erebor Church on the far side of town.

This would not do, and so Bilbo quickly ate a third scone to fortify her for the journey ahead. She had some vague recollection that early-morning offensive manoeuvres often yielded the most decisive victories.

* * *

The mist had not yet cleared; it skirted around the high grasses and the trees, shying away from her skirts as she made her way along the drive up to the manse. Dale Abbey had not so imposing an aspect as its neighbouring estate; on this side of the lake, the inclines were gentler, one hill melting into the next, with the road levelled as much as was possible by human ingenuity to provide a pleasant rather than arduous approach. The Bowmans’ lessened fortunes was detectable only in a certain wildness about the bushes and trees lining the drive, the slight air of neglect in the grasses along the lawn; as Bilbo rounded the corner to take in the building properly, she was all over again charmed by it, as she had been since first she had seen it as a little girl.

The brass knocker was cold to the touch, and Bilbo quickly put her hand back into her muff, stamping her feet very slightly. Though clear, the wind still held the bite of last night’s frost, and neither the sun nor her exertions had warmed her. Standing still on the doorstep recalled her to her discomfort; she hoped it would not be long before a servant heard her.

It was no servant who opened the door, but the master of the house, in his shirtsleeves and vest and looking as taken aback to see her as she was to see him. “Miss Baggins,” he said.

“Captain,” she replied, and could not repress a twitch as the early morning wind wound a tendril down the neck of her jacket.

Whatever else his manners lacked, clearly the sight of a shivering woman on his doorstep moved the captain appropriately. “Please, come in,” he said, stepping aside.

Within was a great deal warmer, and strangely quiet. “Is your Company still asleep?” she asked as Captain Oakenshield lead her into the parlour, a fire crackling in the hearth.

“The life of a sailor necessitates getting rest when one can,” the captain said, in that grave tone he used when mocking her. She resisted the urge to scowl and wrinkle her nose at him, though that there was the urge at all surprised her.

Instead she made an attempt at a smile, chilled though she was, and sat down in the chair she suspected he had vacated in order to answer the door, if the papers on the table beside it were any indication. “And yet you are awake to receive visitors.”

“I have other business to occupy me,” replied he, “And I hardly expected a visitor at eight in the morning.” He was less grave and more irritable now, which at least had the comfort of the familiar. Bilbo no longer had to force her smile as she replied:

“Yes, most pressing business I am sure, since it has necessitated the breaking of your promise two days in a row.”

“I broke no promise, Miss Baggins,” he protested, taking the other, more delicate chair opposite. It was shorter than the one she had claimed, and his knees were at risk of hitting his jaw as he sat. She coughed; he noticed, and glared. “You required only accompaniment; that I have provided, and I can rely enough on your honesty to venture that my nephews and Mr. Bofur were all more pleasurable company than I had been.”

“Such reliance is almost flattering, Captain. And you’re quite correct; they have been entertaining and collegial and everything that is agreeable in a walking companion. You have a great deal of work to do before anyone might ascribe such epithets to yourself.”

“Then why have you come all this way, and at this hour, to berate me for my absence? It seems a perversity in your character, to prefer a substitute yet complain of the original's absence.”

“You either have little experience with vicars, or little experience with women, if you believe anything I have done could be called ‘berating’ or 'complaining,'” Bilbo said. There was something so delightfully dangerous about prodding him, rather like poking a badger with a stick. “As for my perversity of character, I can only admit to it; at my advanced age it is far too late for correction.”

At this the captain seemed puzzled. “You can hardly be more than five and thirty.”

“There is the answer as to what experience you have with women. But as to why I have come; I wished to specifically and most cordially invite you and your Company to Sunday services tomorrow morning at Erebor Church. I realised that I had not made it explicit that you and your men were welcome.”

“By welcome, you mean expected,” guessed Captain Oakenshield.

“And _there_ is the answer as to what experience you have with vicars. I am most impressed.” She stood up. “The service is at nine o’clock, and hats are required — though please convey my request to Mr. Bofur that he find a less… wildly original bit of millinery for the occasion.”

“You are taking your leave already?” the captain said, getting to his feet with some difficulty.

“I have discharged the purpose for which I came,” she replied. “For what reason would I remain?”

“You are not yet recovered from the cold,” the captain pointed out, his eyes narrowing at her features. “Your nose is still bright red.”

“A very _decided_ answer,” Bilbo muttered. “I will suffer through the discomfort of a chilly walk. Captain, and no doubt survive the ignominy of a bright red nose. My house is only twenty minutes from here, after all, and I have the glow of satisfaction to keep me warm.”

“Sure as I am that such satisfaction has done much to warm you in the past, you would would do well to stay a little longer and thaw sufficiently.”

Bilbo opened her mouth, then closed it. If he were one of her parishioners, she would accept with alacrity, taking some tea and turning the conversation to cheerful gossip about the neighbours. If he were Bard, or Gandalf, she would scold them soundly for their presumption but would allow herself to be persuaded by apologies and pastries. If he were Smaug—

The Baron, she knew, would never think to make the offer.

“Thank you, Captain, but I know my own limits better than you. I shall see you tomorrow morning, and if my sermon is punctuated by coughing or sneezing, I will grant you ample opportunity afterward to chastise me.”

It was impossible to believe that anything _she_ could say to the captain would prompt a smile, and yet there was a compression of his mouth that seemed not unlike amusement. “I bow to your superior understanding of yourself, Miss Baggins,” he said, with an inclination of his head. He paused at the doorway, one hand on the handle. “Here,” he said suddenly, and off the neat line of coats hung up along the hallway he plucked a thick woollen scarf, dark blue threaded with pale grey.

Refusal would be rude, but as she hesitated she noticed that he was not looking at her, but rather at the scarf itself, his jaw tight. Perhaps it would be more than rude, but unkind, to reject this offer. She took it and carefully wrapped it around her neck; it was very soft and quite warm.

“It smells of tobacco,” she said, because she could not resist a _little_ rudeness.

“My sister made it,” Captain Oakenshield replied. “I have long suspected her of a weakness for pipeweed.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t try to make jokes, Captain Oakenshield,” Bilbo said as he opened the door for her. “It unsettles me in the extreme.”

“I will bear that in mind, Miss Baggins.”

The walk home was warmer, and in truth she didn’t need the scarf at all. But she kept it wrapped close around her neck, letting it brush her cheek as she turned to watch the larks dart amongst the trees.

* * *

Sunday morning began with a drizzling rain that seemed determined to permeate every layer of leather and wool. Bilbo wrapped Captain Oakenshield’s scarf in some waxed paper and set out at a brisk pace for the church.

She was not the first to arrive; Sigrid opened the door as she came up the walk, still wearing her bonnet, the ribbon sadly bedraggled and damp. “I ran the whole way, but I am convinced that only made the rain fall harder,” she said, sounding very put out as she shut the door behind them and resumed her struggle with the ribbon.

“I doubt the good Lord made it rain harder just to jeopardise your new hat,” Bilbo said, thrusting the package into Sigrid’s hands. “Here, hold this and let me — you’ll only knot it more if you yank in such a manner.”

“Father said he’ll be in attendance today,” Sigrid reported, standing obediently still as Bilbo picked at the blue silk, “Though Bain and Tilda may still go to Mr. Gandalf’s — he gives them sweets.”

“Yes, he gives sweets to all the children. He thinks it encourages their devotion.”

“ _I_ think it gives them bad teeth,” Sigrid said primly. Bilbo tried not to smile as at last the knot came undone. 

The Bowman family’s cottage put them within the territory of Erebor Church, but Dale Abbey’s residents had been members of the Laketown rectory, province of Gandalf, for centuries beyond counting. Bard had attended a few of Bilbo’s services throughout the years, but though he paid his cottage’s tithes to Bilbo, the Abbey’s tithes went to Gandalf and he continued to sit near the front of Laketown Church. They still met most Sundays — over dinner, at the Bowman cottage, Tilda giving her best imitation of Gandalf’s sermon and Bain laughing into his potatoes while Bilbo pretended to heartily disapprove of such behaviour.

Sigrid had come to her almost a year ago, asking innocent questions about how a girl might go to a college and might, perhaps, one day become a vicar, if a girl happened to be interested in such a profession. Bilbo had answered her questions, then gone to Gandalf for some counsel.

“Do you think she would make a bad job of it?” Gandalf had asked her, looking entirely too bland.

“I think she would do extremely well. I just — do not wish to be too great an influence on someone of an impressionable age.”

“It seems to me that being an influence is one of our primary duties, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf had said, “And there are far worse influences that a young woman of Sigrid’s age could fall prey to. I will even overlook the fact that she went to you, and not to me.”

Now Sigrid acted as a kind of unofficial acolyte, doing some cleaning during the week and lighting the candles and arranging the flowers for the services, keeping count of the prayer books and ensuring that no one tried to make off with any of the kneeling cushions (a surprisingly common target of theft). In addition, Bilbo schooled her every Monday, covering not only liturgical matters but broadening her understanding of mathematics, science, and languages, something for which that Sigrid displayed a surprising talent. She would be of age in a year or two to travel to Oxford for a more formal education, and Bilbo intended to give her every advantage.

“Sweets can do as much good as harm,” she told Sigrid. “Did your father tell you why he planned to attend? He always falls asleep during my sermons.”

“He said he wanted to see the fireworks.”

“Naturally,” Bilbo sighed. “Your father is altogether a most exasperating man, have you noticed?”

“I have, Miss Baggins,” said Sigrid, and squeezed the package in her hand lightly. “What is this?”

“A loan,” Bilbo said.

Sigrid narrowed her eyes. “A loan that is related in some way to these fireworks we’re going to witness today?”

“Here is my sermon,” Bilbo replied with a smile, handing her the sheets of paper and taking back the scarf, “Read it through to make sure none of it has gotten wet.”

“Yes, Miss Baggins,” Sigrid said, and took her bonnet and Bilbo’s sermon up the center passageway toward the apse. 

Bilbo went into her office to put away her coat and hat and retrieve her own vestments for the service; she pulled the scarf free of its wrapping and hung it carefully on the peg, unable to resist feeling the softness of it once more — Captain Oakenshield’s sister was a remarkable craftswoman. She could hear the faint creak of the door and the shuffling of feet, murmurs of conversation as people came and made themselves as comfortable as was possible on the wooden pews. There was a great sound of tromping boots at one point, and the low-pitched noise of a large party of men; Bilbo wasn’t sure if she ought to be pleased or not, especially when Sigrid rushed in to help her with her chasuble and report on the attendance.

“They’re all here,” she said, “And Father is sitting with them, even though I reserved a space for him near the front, where Lord Smaug usually sits.”

“Yes, but your father doesn’t like the baron, so I’m not surprised he would refuse to sit in his place.”

“Just as well — that odious toad Mr. Master has taken the seat, anyway.”

“Sigrid, I’m surprised at you,” Bilbo scolded, before turning round to assist her with her own vestments. “I’ve known some perfectly lovely toads; it’s unkind of you in the extreme to compare Mr. Master to one.” It made Sigrid laugh, which was the intention; if Sigrid had one fault, it was that she often fell prey to nerves and subsequently stumbled through her reading. “Did you go over the sermon?” Bilbo continued.

“Yes.” Sigrid looked somewhat dubious. “There aren’t any water stains on it, but—“

“Speak your mind, Sigrid,” Bilbo told her. “This office is our refuge against dissimulation, remember?”

“I never cared much for the story of Jacob and Esau,” she confessed. “I suppose I don’t like thinking about it.”

“Birthrights can be uncomfortable things,” Bilbo agreed. She could sympathise with Sigrid’s discomfort. Dale Abbey was entailed; though Sigrid was eldest, it was Bain who would one day inherit — though goodness knew how much a gift that truly was. Bilbo had long harboured suspicion that Sigrid’s interest in the church was, though genuine, borne out of a certain necessity. Dale Abbey would be a trial for Bain to keep, unless the family’s fortunes changed drastically; there would be little money for the sisters’ dowries, and a great need for at least one of them to enter some profession. It was very like Sigrid to assess the situation and set herself to work without fuss or further discussion. Bilbo thought that Sigrid would indeed make an excellent clergywoman; it would be almost a pity if she were to fall in love and marry instead.

The organ began to play and Sigrid opened the door for her, Bilbo walked up toward the pulpit, pausing a few times to speak with various parishioners she had not seen in the course of the week. William and Tom Trollshaw were in attendance, though Bert was absent. 

Bard sat at an aisle seat, near the back with the whole lot of sailors (though they made quite a smart impression with polished brass buttons and shined shoes, Mr. Bofur’s hat exchanged for a very sober cap). “Mr. Bowman,” Bilbo said, “I am so pleased — and so very surprised — to see you in attendance. Will not Mr. Gandalf miss you at his services?”

“Mr. Gandalf has his hands full with my two youngest, Miss Baggins,” replied Bard. “I tried to bring them along, but you cruelly deprive Tilda of sweets, and it is an unkindness she cannot forgive. Besides, you’ve already stolen a baker’s dozen of his newest congregants right out from under his nose; I thought my betrayal would be enough for poor Mr. Gandalf.”

Bilbo made no response to this, but inclined her head toward Captain Oakenshield, who sat next to Bard and who had listened to their conversation with apparent disinterest. He bowed slightly but offered no conversation; Bilbo wondered how eager he would be to speak with her after the service.

At the front sat Mr. Master. “Good morning, sir,” Bilbo said carefully; she had learned very quickly that Mr. Master considered himself, in the baron’s absence, as something of a surrogate. And in fact sitting there, the steward looked like nothing so much as a place card in a museum case, apologising for the absence of something far more grand and interesting.

“Good morning, vicar,” wheezed Mr. Master. “I trust the rain did not present you with any undue difficulty; it’s made your hair quite unruly.”

A critique of the arrangement of her hair from Mr. Master was almost an insult in itself, but Bilbo resisted the urge to put a hand up. Instead she smiled. “I am very glad to see that the rain had no effect whatsoever on yours.”

She climbed to her post and began the service. They made a fair showing of “To Thy Temple I Repair,” though she suspected it was due mostly to the Company in the back, whose complex harmonies startled most of the congregation into silence. Bilbo caught Bard’s eye and had to hastily look down at her book, for fear of laughing. Sigrid managed her readings with only a few stumbled words, though Bilbo was obliged to frown heavily at Tom and William, who approved of a girl-child acolyte even less than they approved of a lady-vicar. Still, the service proceeded quickly, which was what the congregation had come to expect of her.

In due time, she cleared her throat and pulled out her sermon, quite dry now.

* * *

“Jacob and Esau. Not an easy story for many of you blessed with siblings. I confess I never quite understood the difficulty; I was an only child.” The congregation seemed amused, which was always a good sign. Begin with a joke, Gandalf had told her many years ago, or at least a moderately amusing turn of phrase. They’ll listen all the closer, in the hope you’ll say something cleverer than that. “It is a story about family, and a story about wanting, two men who want the same thing. Two men who believe themselves entitled — though why _are_ they entitled? Esau is eldest, but impulsive and prone to rash action; he does not lose his birthright merely because of a bowl of stew, but by marrying an unsuitable wife. Jacob is clever and cunning, but not brave enough to risk his brother’s wrath; he lives in exile for years and returns to his homeland thinking he needs only to ply his brother with gifts to spare his own life. The story concludes with the brothers’ reconciliation, with both men wealthy and prosperous despite their rift.

“Of course there are many conclusions to draw, and such has been the purpose of this story — this lesson — for thousands of years. But in all the various lessons I have heard and taught myself when recounting the story of Jacob and Esau, I have never before given any thought to a key player: the birthright itself. I have never considered the flocks and the servants, the farmers who tend the land that Jacob wants to own, the property that both men wish so desperately to inherit. What of _their_ desires? What of their care and comfort? While these great men battle over ownership, what do these owned creatures think?

“The answer is that we do not know. We _cannot_ know. They are voiceless and powerless in the story, only an object of desire for two men. Only a goal to be achieved, and not a duty to animal and land and fellow man. I thought about that, and then thought of so many other stories that I have heard in my lifetime — stories from the Bible and from less reputable sources. Stories of men who have wanted; be it power or wealth or the love of a woman. These stories speak of their avarice as though it were their right, as though their desires  were reason. But these desires cannot be reason — they cannot be justification. Power should be held not by the man who wishes for it most, but by the man to whom power is a means to fight injustice and cruelty. Wealth can be accumulated if it is in turn spent on those who are most vulnerable, most in need of help. And love cannot be taken from a woman as though it were a prize, the reward to a man who reaches furthest for it; it can only be given freely and without restraint.

“And so I should hope you will all consider, the next time you desire something in your heart, the next time you work toward the ownership of something or someone: would you want _yourself_ as master? Spend less time in covetousness and ambition, and more time determining how best you would be worthy of that which you desire. If you do so, then you may soon find yourself seeing it not as a jewel to clutch at but as a duty to undertake. Let us all remember that for all his tricks, Jacob served seven years as a servant, and his brother Esau, who he saw as so unworthy of his birthright, cared for Jacob’s flocks and lands and servants as though they were his own. There are many ways to be master, and many ways to succeed; be sure in your heart that you deserve such success.”

* * *

The congregation filed out past her, on their way to lunch and a quiet afternoon (hopefully indoors, since it was still drizzling a bit). The sailors were among the last, all looking a bit uncomfortable — though Bilbo could not determine if it was the sermon or the starch in their uniforms that gave them such discomfited appearance. Bard, of course, looked entirely puzzled, but he clasped Bilbo’s hand. “We’ll see you at six sharp, Miss Baggins,” he said, and swept off with Sigrid in tow.

Mr. Balin had hung back; he came forward now, a slightly worried smile on his face. “A very… interesting sermon, Miss Baggins,” he said. “Though, if I may say so, a bit pointed.”

“The blade was only aimed at one person, Mr. Balin,” Bilbo replied. She remembered something Mr. Bofur had said, that Mr. Balin was the ship’s chaplain. Strange that he should be with this party. “And I have not yet seen him — did he fall mortally wounded and his body lays within?”

Mr. Balin chuckled. “Aye, I understand what he means about you,” he said, bafflingly. “The captain is still inside, though I don’t think the wound will be the death of him. He asked to have a word with you in your office, if you would oblige him.”

“Such obligations are part of our vocation, are they not?” Bilbo said. “Thank you for the message; I will be with him shortly.”

She bid her farewells to the rest of the congregation before returning inside; sure enough the door to her office was open, and she could see the rigid shoulders of the captain from the doorway.

“It is customary to wait to be invited,” Bilbo said, “But I suppose you are used to a ship’s rules, where all rooms are yours.”

She closed the door and turned to face him. She expected anger, or at least insolence; but his expression betrayed neither. “That is untrue, Miss Baggins. A captain must respect every sailor’s berth; he is master of the ship and of its men, but the men must have some mastery over themselves and what is theirs. But I am sorry to have, once again, offended you. I assumed that the open door was in itself an invitation.”

Bilbo wanted to make some protest that the door had not been open at all, but it was surely possible that Sigrid had come in to deposit her cassock and had forgotten to shut it after herself. “In that case it is I who should beg your pardon, for you are quite right.” She circled her desk to retrieve his scarf from the hook. “Thank you for the use of this,” she said. Although the office was warm, still the scarf seemed warmer, and she smoothed her hand down the folded face of it before turning to him. “What did you think of the service?”

“I confess I did not enjoy your sermon,” Captain Oakenshield said.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Bilbo sighed, and held out the scarf. “But thank you for listening, all the same.”

He did not move to take it. “You seem to think very poorly of me, and I would like to know why. That sermon,” he said, with a glance toward the door, “Was a reproof, was it not?”

“It was a warning,” she said, withdrawing the scarf. “I know your ambitions—“

“Do you?”

The harshness of his tone startled her, but she pressed on. “I know what you have told me,” she amended. “But your reasons seem to be hinged merely on your own desire — you want this, and therefore you ought to have it. Can you not see the danger in such a mindset?”

“I have better reasons than you suppose, Miss Baggins, for my actions—“

“ _As do I_ , Captain Oakenshield, for mine. Or do you truly think I _approve_ of the way in which the baron manages this estate?”

That, at least, seems to silence him for a moment.

“Do you truly think it cowardice, or my own comfort, or fear for my position, that makes me wary of your plans? And do you truly think it is merely another peculiarity of character that prompted me to propose our bargain? I did not ask you to accompany me on my rounds to punish you, or to rise myself above you, but to show you the suffering of the people you wish to call yours. I wanted you to take their burdens on as your own, to see their pain as your own, to understand your duty to them — for it is a _duty_ , not a birthright, that you wish to take from Smaug. If you succeed, then they will look to you to make things right.”

“And I _shall_ ,” he replied.

“For whom? For yourself? I am a newcomer in this place, but I know the history of your family, perhaps better than you. If you truly are a Durin, then it is hardly a recommendation above Smaug.”

“You cannot think I would be worse than _him_ ,” scoffed the captain, but he looked unsettled.

“I certainly can; I have been given no proof otherwise. You think that disliking the baron is enough for the people to welcome you as master? They are all of them more clever than you suppose. You are an officer of the fleet, so perhaps you can tell me: when is the last time a mutiny worked in favour of those who had suffered most under the deposed captain?”

“I will do you the honour of supposing you do not know how deeply offensive such a comparison is, Miss Baggins,” he said, his hands made into fists at his side. He turned and opened the door.

“Your scarf—“ Bilbo said, which seemed such a foolish thing to say. She had made the captain furious, though she was not quite sure how she had managed it in such a short time. It seemed her own particular talent.

He paused, but did not look back. “Keep it for now,” he said. “The storm will get worse.”

Bilbo listened to the hard sound of Captain Oakenshield’s boots as he marched out. She remained in her office for some time afterward, telling herself she was simply waiting for the rain to stop, but when at last it did she still sat in her chair, thinking.

* * *

At long last she roused herself; it was past lunchtime. She gathered her belongings and, after a long deliberation, wrapped the scarf around her neck once more. She made her way home slowly, still lost in her own thoughts. When the clouds burst anew, she bit back her first impulsive exclamation and ran the rest of the way, puddles splashing at her dress and shoes as the rain, ferocious now, lashed at her face.

Shutting the door behind her did little to block out the crash of thunder that shook the ground. The house was gloomy, only a few lamps lit against the early afternoon darkness. She removed her coat and the scarf, the cloth made uncooperative by damp, and patted uselessly at her hair — if it had been unruly before, no doubt it was frightful now — as she made her way through the parlour into the kitchen, where she thought she might persuade Mrs. Gamgee to fix her up something.

“Such a delightful home you’ve made for yourself, Miss Baggins,” came a voice from the armchair next to the fireplace. There was no fire, and the corner was dark; but Bilbo knew at once who sat there. That knowledge did nothing to calm the pounding of her heart or the tension in her frame. “I only regret that I have not visited before.”

“Lord John,” she said, as the baron stood up and turned to face her. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Baggins,” he replied as a smile stretched his face, “I assure you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Every summer of Bilbo's childhood, her mother took her up to Laketown for a month to visit Gandalf. The rectory had a room especially for her, a soft quilt embroidered with pansies on the bed and a rocking horse in the corner. One of Bilbo’s earliest memories was waking up one morning when she was perhaps four or five. It was too early to rouse her mother or Gandalf, so she crept out of bed and over to the window seat to watch the mist slowly clear, revealing first the lake and then the road beyond and at last Erebor Pike, gleaming like water in the sun. The castle was just visible if she pressed her forehead against the glass, and she still carried with her the feel of the cold on her skin and the way Erebor seemed to glow in the dawn.

Their visits coincided with the Running, a county-wide competition for each foal born the previous year to test its stamina and strength against the others. It was keenly anticipated by every boy and girl in the county, for only children under the age of twelve were permitted to ride, and the honour of being elected was fiercely coveted. Dale Abbey and Erebor Park traded duties as host; one year would see ponies and children dashing up the winding drive to Erebor’s front lawn, the next they would brave the deep stream that ran along the breadth of the Dale estate, wading in the cold water that came up to the children’s knees.

Bilbo was allowed to participate twice. The first time she was eight; Mother had laughed at Gandalf’s protests and she was given a sweet little mare. They jumped into the stream and managed to finish third, though Bilbo foolishly left her boots on and one of them was lost until Mr. Bowman's son waded into the water and retrieved it, waving it over his head like a prized trophy. Mr. Bowman and Old Durin — frail and grey, and Bilbo thought it such a great pity that he seemed only to smile on this one day of the year — presented every child with an orange and every pony with an apple.

"Well done, young lady," Old Durin told her, leaning heavily on his cane. "You have put us Northern riders to shame."

"Next year I shall be first up the hill to Erebor Park," she predicted, then (remembering to whom it was she spoke) adding, "If that is acceptable to you, my lord."

"I should like nothing better than to see you defeat them all, Miss Baggins," he replied gravely, and shook her hand.

But Old Durin died before the summer’s end, and when Bilbo and her mother returned the following year, Lord Smaug was host. That was the last time Bilbo and her mother came to Laketown.

***

“To what do I owe this honour, Lord John?” Bilbo asked, placing her gloves and bag on the table. She was glad to see her hands were still, betraying no anxiety, though she felt almost sick with it. Smaug had never before come to the vicarage; she had rarely so much as seen him in town. For him to be here, three days before his expected arrival, and to be _here,_ in her home, standing beside her favourite chair — she had a dreadful apprehension that she knew exactly what had brought him.

“An _honour_. I’m flattered you think so. Please,” he said, “Do sit down.”

Bilbo had never before in her life wanted to keep her feet more than at this moment. “I am sorry if I kept you waiting. I shall go and arrange for some tea to—“

“Sit. Down.” It was ground out of him, and when she looked at him she saw only angles and shadows on his face, creating something that she could not positively identify as human at all. She sat in the chair opposite; he waited until she was settled, then sprawled back into his own seat. “Very good, vicar,” he said, as though praising a dog.

“I did not expect your return until Wednesday.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. But you are always so accommodating — always willing to accept a guest into your home, no matter how unexpected. Such an _obliging_ hostess. You are clearly wasted on holy orders, given your eagerness to please anyone who comes through your door.”

It was, of course, an insult, but Smaug often spoke so, with sharp words that sliced so finely that the wound was not discovered until later. She had long since learned the best way to respond to these needles: pretend they were not there. “You have declined tea,” she said. “What else can I offer you?”

“What else, what _else_.” He tapped his lip with one long, pale finger. “Dale Abbey has been let. To whom?”

“A captain of the fleet.”

“His name.”

“Captain Oakenshield. I do not recall his Christian name.”

“What a terrible memory you have, vicar. I’m quite disappointed.”

“It pains me to hear that.”

“Does it really. I’m so _glad_. And this Captain Thorin Oakenshield, has he made himself known to you?”

Bilbo felt cold. “Yes, Thorin — that is his name.”

“Yes, it is. I know a great deal about our newest arrival, this friend of our dear rector’s. You did not see fit to mention that connection.”

“Only because I did not think it merited much interest, Lord John. Mr. Gandalf knows so many people.”

“Oh, so many,” Smaug echoed. “As kind as you may think it, in future do not presume to know what may or may not merit my interest. Did he tell you his plans?”

“His — Mr. Gandalf? I do not know of any particular plans—“

“Captain Oakenshield, and you knew that was of whom I spoke, vicar. His plans, what are they?”

“He seems desirous of remaining in Laketown for some period of time. Apparently a number of captains will retire now that this action is over. I think it very possible the captain may settle here for good, if he is not recalled to the fleet.”

“ _If._ Such an interesting word. So those are his plans?”

“He is not given much to talking.”

“And yet you spent an entire day with him, going from tenant’s house to tenant’s house. He carried your bags. Even a quiet man might say things in such delightful company.”

“It seems you know more about the goings-on in your absence than—“

“I feel I have perhaps made myself unclear, vicar.” Smaug did not raise his voice as he spoke; he sounded perfectly calm. “You have information that I want. You will give it to me without delays, triflings, pretences at bad memory, or any other tactics that you have no doubt been learning from the rector all your life. Now, _do you understand me_?” The last was the crack of a shotgun. Bilbo wanted to flinch from it.

Instead she clenched her jaw. It was a curious sort of relief, to sit and listen to Smaug say such things. For so long he had been an unsettling shadow, the threat ever looming but never truly manifesting. Now it was here, in her armchair, staring her down.

Smaug watched her watch him. “Do you remember the first time we met?” he said, his tone once more collegial. “Mr. Gandalf put you forth as replacement for old Radagast. A breath of fresh air into our stale little hamlet — that is what he called you as he introduced us. And what a fresh breath you have been these past four years.”

“That was not the first time we met, Lord John,” Bilbo said. She was angry — afraid, yes, because Smaug had come into her house in order to make her afraid. But the anger burned through it, because Smaug had come into her house in order to make her afraid, and such a thing would not stand.

“No,” Smaug agreed. “It wasn’t. I am glad that your memory isn’t so poor as you pretend. Now, once more. Captain Oakenshield’s plans.”

“If you must know, Lord John,” Bilbo said, speaking slowly, her mind a jumble of notions. Each prevarication seemed more absurd than the last, more likely to result in Smaug’s wrath being unleashed like a hurricane. She cleared her throat and continued, “I believe the captain may plan, in time, perhaps, if I am not mistaken in his intent — I believe it possible that he may make an offer. To — me.”

In the silence that followed, Bilbo could hear her own heartbeat. Smaug did not blink for long moments, his pale eyes fixed upon her. Then suddenly he smiled. “Indeed? Then I offer you my best wishes — for you as well as for him. It’s quite unexpected. And after such a short acquaintance.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Bilbo tried to return the smile, knowing that the baron would enjoy her failure to do so. “But it seems that Mr. Gandalf spoke of me to him previously, and he was disposed to think well of me. I find him — very agreeable.” Of all the lies, this was the most difficult, but Smaug did not seem to note her hesitation.

“Truly, you and Captain Oakenshield will owe so much to your dear rector when all this is over.” Smaug chuckled, an oiled thing spilling into the room. “Well, if that is the plan, so far as you know, then I can only assure you that nothing would please me more than to grant you both my blessing.”

With this, Smaug stood and collected his coat and hat. Bilbo remained seated, still trying to gain mastery over the breathtaking stupidity of what she had just done. She wondered if Captain Oakenshield would run her through himself or if he would delegate it to one of his men. She hoped Mr. Bofur would not be called upon; he seemed such a softhearted fellow. She realised the baron had said something, and she took a breath, this time managing a smile as she looked up at him. “Pardon, Lord John? I did not hear you.”

“I said, I look forward to meeting your dear captain, and deciding for himself whether he is a worthy thief.”

“Thief?” she asked. Her voice was altogether too pinched and high, and she cleared her throat once more.

“To steal you away from me and my parish. Perhaps I shall find him wanting, and refuse to permit his suit.”

“I must protest, sir,” Bilbo said, getting to her feet. “I am a woman of age and means; as much as I would be glad of your blessing, I do not require it.”

“Do you _not_?” Smaug stepped closer, looking down upon her from his height. “Are you so certain of your place here, dear vicar?”

“I—“ She could not think of a response.

He advanced another step, closer now than he had ever been, close enough for her to see the sharp silver-grey flecks in his green eyes. “I think you are apt to forget what I am, and what you are. _I_ am the master of Erebor. Every field and house and brick in the lane belongs to me, every animal, and every man, woman, and child. Do you think it is God that they pray to on Sunday while you read them platitudes from your book? _I_ am Lord of the Silver Fountains, the only lord that can grant them mercy. Or deny them.” He reached out as though to touch her; she stepped back, knocking into the armchair, and he smiled thinly at her wince of pain. “Just as surely as they are mine, _so are you_.”

Bilbo could feel her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm; she remembered another time she had faced his smile with nothing more than her hands, clenched in fists. She lifted her chin. She was no longer nine years old, and when she said, “I bid you good day, Lord John,” her voice was steady.

“A very good day to you too, vicar,” he said, but though his voice once more resumed its lazy tone there was a sharpness in his gaze — a wariness, perhaps.

“Will we see you on Sunday?”

“You shall, though perhaps not the Sunday after — oh yes, of course, I came here to inform you of just that possibility,” said Smaug, lightly. “I expect a party to invade our sleepy village — or should I say, _another_ party — by the end of next week. Some old friends of mine. I would be most honoured if you would consider joining us for a dinner or two while they are here; I can assure you they are better company than you may have grown accustomed to.”

Once again his demeanour was all ease and friendliness. “Thank you for thinking of me,” said Bilbo.

This time when he reached for her she had no choice but to offer her hand. “I think of you often, vicar — please believe that.”

***

Gandalf came pounding at the door fifteen minutes later, his hat in one hand and his cane in the other, quite out of breath. “Ah, Miss Baggins,” he said, very loudly, “I came to discuss the schedule for Good Friday—“

“You needn’t bellow, Gandalf, I don’t need rescuing.” Bilbo took his hat and his cane and his cloak.

“I take it the dragon has departed, then,” Gandalf said. “I received word that he was lying in wait for you here.”

“Yes, he breathed his fire and flew off. I’m perfectly fine, there was no need to rush over in all this haste — though I would very much like to know from _whom_ you received that word.”

Magnificently oblivious to all questions he did not want to answer, Gandalf instead narrowed his eyes at her. “Your hands are trembling and your face is flushed. That fire must have been rather fearsome.”

She bit her lip, and admitted, “I was just writing a note for Mrs. Gamgee to deliver to the Bowmans, declining dinner today.”

“ _Very_ fearsome,” Gandalf concluded. “Excellent. Finish your note and we shall talk further.”

“I suspect you very strongly of simply wanting some of Mrs. Gamgee’s baking.”

“I’ve no idea what you could mean. Has she made any of that excellent lemon cake this week?”

Over the kitchen table, Bilbo recounted the events of the past few hours, from the morning’s sermon to the afternoon’s confrontation. “And before you set to tutting me over my treatment of ‘poor Captain Oakenshield,’” Bilbo said, “Please bear in mind that it is because of you that the situation has devolved to this point.” She recalled Smaug’s words: _you and Captain Oakenshield will owe so much to your dear rector when all this is over_. She shivered, and stood to place another log in the stove. “Also, I have yet to receive repayment for last Tuesday night’s outrage.”

“It will arrive before the day is out,” Gandalf assured her. “The cart is positively laden; I was overseeing preparations myself when I was informed that the good baron was paying you a visit. I thought it prudent not to wait.”

“Informed by whom?” Bilbo scowled as Gandalf answered only by smiling and sipping at his tea. “Very well, keep your secret informants. Goodness knows the baron has his fair share of them, too.”

“Yes, he is remarkably well informed. But your dissembling has distracted him, however temporarily; I must congratulate you on your quick thinking.”

“I would not characterise it as either ‘quick’ or ‘thinking,’ myself,” Bilbo admitted. “And I fear that it will not work for long; the captain and I are not exactly on the best of terms at present, and I cannot imagine that anyone who sees us together will believe him enamoured of me.”

“‘At present’? Surely you don’t mean to imply that you have been on good terms since you first met?”

Bilbo had to admit the truth of that.

“Of course, he did lend you his scarf, so perhaps he would not be so reluctant as you think to go along with your… improvisation.”

“I already regret disclosing that incident to you,” Bilbo sighed.

“As well you should,” Gandalf said, and held out his cup for more tea.

***

The first thing Captain Oakenshield said the following morning was, “Did you catch cold after all?”

Mr. Balin, who accompanied him, let out a noise that he might have thought indicated disapproval, but instead sounded more like laughter inadequately repressed. Bilbo scowled at them both. It was probable that she did not look in the best of health; Sunday afternoon and evening had been spent organising her newly-filled pantry and preparing a meal for Gandalf, who claimed the right to dine with her based on his generosity. Bilbo had grumbled over her friend’s peculiar definition of “generosity,” but had made him roast chicken with potatoes and carrots all the same. Sunday night had been spent staring at her bedroom ceiling for several hours, before she gave up on the prospect of sleep and barricaded herself in her library, reading Gibbon until the sun rose. Her eyes felt as though they were stuffed with rags, dry and scratchy.

“How good to see you, Captain. And Mr. Balin — you are both to be admired for your punctuality,” she said with a grimace as the church bells chimed eleven.

Captain Oakenshield looked somewhat uncomfortable. “It was brought to my attention,” he said, half turning toward Mr. Balin, who beamed broadly at her, “That perhaps I may have acted in a manner yesterday that did not befit either my rank or your position. I apologise.”

She admitted to herself the temptation to make some remark on the unlikeliness of such an apology, with a reference to whether or not a blue moon was due at the end of the month. But she said, “And I accept it — won’t you both come in?”

“Are we not expected at someone’s house?” Mr. Balin asked, stepping within and doffing his cap. “I’ve heard reports of scones that I’d like to investigate.”

Bilbo shut the door. “I have something urgent to discuss with you. The baron has returned to Erebor Park.”

Captain Oakenshield stiffened. “I see.”

“No,” Bilbo said, ushering them into the parlour, “I don’t believe you do. He came to my house yesterday afternoon — the first time he has ever set foot inside.”

“Is he not your patron?” the captain asked, taking the seat Bilbo appointed to him. It was the same that Smaug had taken, and Bilbo could not prevent herself from comparing the two. Captain Oakenshield sat straight and attentive, as though unused to even the simple luxury of a plush armchair. She wondered what comforts there were to be found on board a ship in His Majesty’s Navy; she could not imagine there were many.

Mr. Balin took the chair opposite, and Bilbo drew up the chair from her side table. “He is, and you are right to think that generally a vicar and master would be more social. But we are not, for a number of reasons, though I have known him since I was a child.”

“I sense a story,” Mr. Balin said, leaning back.

“Your senses do not deceive you, Mr. Balin, but now is not the time for it.” She addressed Captain Oakenshield. “The salient points are these: he came here and he asked several questions to which he already knew the answers — your name, your presence here, your connection with Gandalf, and your whereabouts last Wednesday.”

“I was with _you_ on Wednesday,” the captain said slowly.

“Yes, you were, and he knew it. I am unsure how he could — he must have arrived only just yesterday morning. Even his steward was unaware Lord Smaug had returned, when I spoke to him at the service. But it was clear to me that he had been in conference with _someone_ before he came here, someone who informed him of a great deal. And that someone was not me.”

Mr. Balin raised his hand peaceably. “And we did not think for a moment that that was the case, Miss Baggins.”

Bilbo glanced at Captain Oakenshield, who was looking entirely less certain.

“Perhaps someone has been… indiscreet,” she ventured. “You travel with a large party, after all, and it may be that one of them did not see the harm in passing idle talk with the townspeople. I believe most of my parishioners to be honest, hardworking folk, but the baron holds a great deal of power over them — they might be compelled to act as his spies.”

She braced herself for fury, but Captain Oakenshield only looked speculative. “I hope you are wrong, Miss Baggins,” he said, “But I will bear this information in mind. Thank you for telling us.”

“That — is not all I have to tell, I’m afraid,” she said. “He had more questions about you, and about your plans.”

“My plans,” the captain repeated.

“Yes. That was the very word he used. I fear he may know more than your name, Captain Oakenshield. It seems entirely likely that he knows _who_ you are, and _what_ you are. Again, I do not know how—“

“I do,” said Captain Oakenshield, but did not elaborate. “So, Smaug asked of my plans. And you told him — what?”

He spoke sharply, and Bilbo wished that she could reprove him in good conscience. As it was, she sighed. “I told him nothing. But he did not believe me, and pressed for an answer. I… am afraid I may have placed you in a somewhat awkward position. Along with myself,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

“Never mind about that other story, this is sure to be a better one,” Mr. Balin said, laughing at her expression. “What did you tell him? That Thorin had suffered a terrible blow to the head and he’s given to flights of fancy, such as thinking he’s the captain of a ship? Or that he’s on the run from the constabulary in London? Or,” he said, laughing as the thought occurred to him, “Perhaps he’s nursing a secret love for some young lass in the village and has come to make her an offer of marriage?” He slapped his knee.

Bilbo bit her lip. “Not precisely a _young_ lass,” she admitted, gazing out the window. “But — yes. In essentials. I told the baron that I thought it likely the captain may propose, given further acquaintance.”

“Given further acquaintance with _whom_?” Captain Oakenshield demanded.

“With _me_ , however repugnant that thought is to both of us,” Bilbo snapped. She took a deep breath; the captain did not deserve her irritation, at least not for this, and it was well to remember that it was _she_ who had landed them here. “I am sorry. But I am also certain that the baron suspects you — both your true identity and your endeavour. What hope you had in secrecy is now lost. We must turn to outright deceit if we are to survive this.”

“We?” echoed the captain. “Then you are with us?”

“To quote myself from a few days previous, certainly not,” Bilbo said hastily. “I will not be part of any attempted burglary; I still do not believe that your ends justify your means, and inasmuch as I can offer you my help, I will do so only in the hope that you find a _legitimate_ way of proving your claim. But I hope you understand that our fates are now inextricably linked. If Smaug’s suspicions of you are not deflected — if he finds one shred of proof as to your real goal — he will not hesitate.”

“Then it appears I have little choice but to go along,” said the captain, with a strange little smile on his face. She wasn’t at all sure she liked this new trend of amusing him — and angering him — without having the least idea of how she’d done it.

“Precious little,” Mr. Balin agreed. “Still, could be worse. You’ve got a fair brain when you’re put on your toes, lassie.”

“It’s almost convenient, in fact,” Captain Oakenshield said to Mr. Balin. “It provides an excuse for our lengthy visit. And I am sure _you_ are in no danger from me,” he added to her.

“Most assuredly,” she agreed. How puzzling men were; if the captain had been the one to hatch this scheme, she would have twisted his ear clean off and reported him to the local magistrate — who was Gandalf, and who would have laughed. 

“Very well, then. In light of our conversation yesterday and this… interesting solution of yours, perhaps we could strike a new bargain? I will continue to accompany you on your rounds and in addition will act the part of a suitor, if you will in turn assist me and my men in such ways as do not trouble your conscience. I wish for the Company, and myself, to be friendly with the local people; I believe you can help us in that, at least.” Mr. Balin cleared his throat noisily, and the captain sighed. “And of course, I will submit myself to your further instruction on country matters, so that I will make for a better master than the one I’ll replace.”

“A very generous offer,” Bilbo said, unable to entirely keep sarcasm from her tone. The captain spoke as though he had already regained the mountain for himself, and was only waiting for the right moment to stride up the driveway and take possession. “So the fact that we find each other almost entirely unendurable will not be an issue?”

“Only _almost_ entirely unendurable on your part, Miss Baggins? I am well-complimented,” said Captain Oakenshield.

***

The three of them visited first the Gamgees, the tenants that took care of her own modest land behind the vicarage. “I do not collect tithes from them,” Bilbo said as she lead Mr. Balin and Captain Oakenshield down the narrow path that lead to the Gamgee’s farmhouse. “But it is customary for me to call on them first thing every Monday. And Mr. Gamgee is very fond of discussing village business, with myself and with everyone else he meets; it will be a good opportunity for you, Captain, to fulfil your end of the bargain in one certain particular.”

“Understood,” sighed Captain Oakenshield, as Mr. Balin laughed at him.

The Gamgee family had been the Erebor Church tenants for time out of mind; tradition held that the husband worked the acreage and the wife tended to the household. A Gamgee’s approval of an incoming vicar had at one time been considered more important than a Durin’s — after all, a Durin might think any reasonably well-educated gentleman suitable for the job, but the Gamgees had standards to uphold. There was a story told, half-disbelieving, that Roper Gamgee’s grandmother had rejected Bishop Saruman himself when he was a young man, insisting instead on Mr. Gandalf, a young curate from Burnley who had only a glancing connection to the baron. But Old Durin had listened and Mr. Gandalf had been given the living, holding it for almost fifteen years before his elevation to rector.

The Rev. Bilbo Baggins was the first vicar to be appointed by the new baron after nearly thirty-five years of Mr. Radagast’s oversight, and Lord Smaug had made it clear in some way that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Gamgee would be solicited for their opinion on the matter. This resulted in a certain frostiness on the part of the tenants at first. Bad enough that a young woman — a stranger, and a Southern stranger worse — had been brought in to replace the dear old vicar. But to have even the pretence of their approval taken away was a blow to the Gamgees’ pride, and they compensated for it by granting to Bilbo only the bare minimum in cordiality.

Bilbo wore down their icy disapproval with numerous applications to them for advice on matters pertaining to the village. She sought their opinions on everything from the embroidery on the new altar cloths to the hymns to be sung at Michealmas, and within three months Mr. Gamgee was heard saying that the new vicar was entirely acceptable, though she could stand to be a bit more certain of her own views.

From then onward Miss Baggins and the Gamgees were good friends as well as amiable landlady and tenant, a friendship built not only on mutual regard but on the little favours that made up the larger portion of a community’s goodwill. They were often at each other’s homes sharing fresh baking (on Mrs. Gamgee’s part) or interesting news from the town (on Bilbo’s.) Bilbo helped teach their son Hamfast to read and Mr. Gamgee stabled Bilbo’s mare Myrtle along with his three cows and his Clydesdale named Minty.

In fact it was Myrtle and Minty who greeted them in the Gamgee’s front yard, Minty wearing the trappings of his harness and Myrtle with her halter on and a lead dangling from it. Bilbo could hear swearing from the direction of the barn. “The two of you are going to either make Roper’s hair turn white or cause him to lose it altogether,” Bilbo chastised them as they examined her skirt for hidden carrots or apples. She gathered Minty’s reins from where they trailed on the ground, calling behind her, “Could one of you gentlemen take charge of Myrtle? Minty is a bit distrustful of strangers.”

She did not hear a reply; when she turned to look behind her she was rewarded with the sight of two grown men standing stiffly at attention while an elderly pony nudged at them, hopeful. Failing to elicit either a treat or attention, Myrtle whuffled in Mr. Balin’s face, knocking his hat off. 

“Gentlemen?” she prompted, attempting valiantly to keep her voice level.

“Have mercy, Miss Baggins,” Mr. Balin said, plaintive. “I’ve been at sea for nigh fifty years — the closest I usually get to one of these creatures is the horse jerky we’ve pillaged from enemy ships.”

“You hardly need fear for your safety from Myrtle,” she chided him. “Captain, surely you can master your terror long enough to assist me?”

The captain, either spurred by Bilbo’s words or by the manner in which Myrtle had begun eyeing his bicorne, tentatively grasped the pony’s lead and walked in a curious sort of crab fashion toward Bilbo, keeping Myrtle in his sights. “I am scarcely more familiar with the beasts,” he confided, unnecessarily.

“We shall add it to the lesson plan, Captain, for I’m afraid anyone who wishes to live in the country must have a serviceable seat.” She smiled cheerfully at him as he turned to stare at her, distracting him long enough for Myrtle to tug at his queue.

They made it halfway up the hill before Roper Gamgee came barreling out of the barn, still swearing. He stopped at the sight of Bilbo; she could almost hear the snap of his teeth. “Miss Baggins, that pony of yours is like to be the death of me,” he said, wagging his finger at Myrtle (who had managed to steal Captain Oakenshield’s handkerchief without his knowledge and was chewing at it thoughtfully).

“I’ve told you time and again to put a padlock on her stable door,” Bilbo said.

“And I’ve told you, I’ll not be responsible for that creature learning how to use a lock-pick,” replied Roper, taking Minty’s reins from her with an absentminded bob of his head. “She let the pigs out of their pen not twenty minutes ago — I’ll swear on my life it was one of them diversionary tactics as they call them, ‘cause the minute I had them rounded up I looked about me and saw the plough and no Minty hooked to it.”

“She unhooked your horse from a plough?” Captain Oakenshield asked, attempting to regain possession of his handkerchief. Myrtle butted him in the chest.

“She’s quite an escape artist,” Bilbo admitted, then continued, “Captain Oakenshield, may I introduce Mr. Gamgee. Mr. Gamgee, this is Captain Oakenshield, the new tenant at Dale Abbey — his companion Mr. Balin is still by the gate. I fear the horses may have alarmed him.”

“They alarm me, too,” Roper huffed. “I’m most pleased to meet you, sir. I heard from my missus that you and your company did no little damage to our Miss Baggins’s pantry. She almost had a fit Wednesday last, coming in to do you a supper and finding nothing but carrots and potatoes and a pat of butter on the shelves.”

“And yet it was still quite an excellent meal,” Bilbo assured him. She looked over to see if the captain might object to what was most likely the standard (and accurate) understanding of the events of Tuesday night, but Captain Oakenshield was still locked in battle with Myrtle, who seemed to think it a great game.

“He’s certainly got a way with her,” Roper muttered to Bilbo.

“He’s a captain of His Majesty’s Navy, he can’t be expected to know how to deal with horses,” she replied.

“The master at Ascot himself wouldn’t know how deal with Myrtle, Miss Baggins, and that’s a fact.” Roper pulled a half a carrot out of his pocket and flourished it at Myrtle; her interest piqued, she stood still long enough for Captain Oakenshield to get a firm grip on his handkerchief and wrest it away.

“I was just saying to the captain that we should most certainly teach him to ride while he is here in Laketown. He seems quite taken with the countryside, and I think it important that any gentleman who wishes to live here be familiar with horseflesh.”

“To be sure. I believe the Sackvilles have a few mounts they’d not mind letting out for the purpose, and I’ve got stalls enough holding nothing but a few mice and some straw-bales. I’m even free tomorrow morning for a lesson, if you would not object to a late start — perhaps around seven o’clock.” Roper looked at the captain narrowly. “But it’s a fair amount of work, sir. Especially at your time of life, if you don’t mind my saying, and it may not be worth your while unless you may be thinking of staying here in the countryside for more than just a month or so.”

Bilbo held her breath; this was the first test. Flirtation on _her_ part was entirely out of the question, and not only because propriety prohibited it. She knew herself to be too poor an actress; she could not stomach the prospect of giggling at the captain without making a face. But if Captain Oakenshield could perform his part of a besotted suitor to Roper’s satisfaction, then there would be little need for her to simper like a girl half her age.

The captain smiled, folding his handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. “I find myself very open to the prospect of remaining longer,” he said, and glanced at Bilbo from under his lashes. “The company I’ve found here has been… most agreeable.”

The repetition of the exact phrase that she had used to describe Captain Oakenshield to the baron had a most peculiar effect on her. All at once she felt a rush of unaccountable fondness for this stiff-necked captain, who (after all) was in the same uncomfortable situation as she — moreover, a situation of _her_ devising. And yet she had received from him no rebuke, but rather a proposal to carry it forward, which from the captain was as good as an expression of appreciation. The man she thought she had the measure of, the sailor who had strolled into her house as though he owned it and called her a coward to her face less than a week ago  — that man did not seem much in evidence now.

No doubt he would make himself known before long. In the meantime, Bilbo turned back to Roper. “If you could speak to Mrs. Sackville and arrange the loan, I would be indebted to you. And it is so kind of you to act as their tutor in this matter — it would be difficult for _me_ to teach them, unless they wished to ride side-saddle.”

“Of — of course, Miss Baggins,” Roper said, looking thunderstruck as his gaze flickered between Bilbo and Captain Oakenshield. “But if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand with Myrtle while I hitch Minty back up, I do have something particular that I’d like to speak to you about. With respect, Captain,” he added, touching his cap.

The captain excused them and Bilbo took Myrtle from his charge, following Roper to the barn. She lead Myrtle back into her own stable, scolding her to _stay_ _inside_ for the rest of the day, and then went out the back to where Roper had already reattached Minty to the plough.

“It seems you did not need my assistance after all,” she said, her tone framing it as a question.

“My apologies for that, Miss Baggins, but I did want to speak to you in private for just a moment.” Roper took off his cap and held it in his hands, a sure sign that he was troubled. “I wanted to say — well, it may be, and I’m no judge of these things to be called as witness, you understand, miss, but — it seems that the captain may have a bit of a... Well. He doesn’t seem altogether only interested in the countryside for its own merits, if you see my meaning.”

She blinked widely at him, feeling as ridiculous as she had twenty-five years ago, playing the part of Mary in her church’s nativity play. “I’m sorry?”

Roper twisted the cap. “I mean to say, Miss Baggins, that he may’ve agreed to learn how to ride because it was _you_ who suggested it? If you understand what I’m saying?”

“Oh,” she replied, hoping she sounded surprised. “Oh, I’m sure you’re wrong, Roper. The captain is friends with Mr. Gandalf, I am sure he simply wants to be on good terms with me for that reason.”

“Well, be on guard, Miss Baggins — that is to say that any arrangements of a that particular nature would lead us all to wish you nothing but joy, of course. But, well,” and Bilbo was growing increasingly concerned for the fate of Roper’s hat, “It’s just that we’d hate to lose you as our vicar. Especially if you should have children — not that you will, Miss, or —if you do, they’ll be lovely, I’m sure—“

“Roper,” Bilbo interrupted, feeling a rush of fondness so unexpected that she had to swallow a curious lump in her throat, “Thank you. I am glad to hear it, truly.”

He blew out a breath of relief. “Well, we’ve all gotten used to you and your little ways. The missus often remarks you keep the house tidier than ever Mr. Radagast did, and that’s a fact. So — well. Whatever happens, I thought you should know. One way or another.”

Bilbo closed her hand over his cap, stilling his fretful fussing. “I do. And thanks again.”

“Yes, well. Best be getting on with the work, and you’ve your rounds to make. Will your — friends be accompanying you?”

“Today, yes, and Captain Oakenshield has expressed a desire to come along for several of my visits,” Bilbo said. “He does seem interested in learning more about country life.”

The look Roper gave her was dubious indeed. “If you think it’s interest in country life that he’s expressing, miss, I’ll not be the one to say otherwise.”

They all went back down to the gate, where Roper made the acquaintance of Mr. Balin (who had found a shady bench to await their return). “And you will remember to call on Mrs. Sackville today?” Bilbo said as they let themselves out. “I would like to put the captain and several of his Company in the saddle tomorrow, if possible.”

“I’ll remember. Just so long as you remember — what I said before,” Roper told her, his head tilted meaningfully toward the captain.

“I will, and once again I am so very grateful to you, Roper. Good day, and if I do not see Mrs. Gamgee when I return home, please give her my regards.”

“Will do, miss.” Roper tipped his hat to them all and made his way back up the hill.

“What did Mr. Gamgee have to say in private?” Captain Oakenshield inquired, as they set off once more.

“The fact that he wished to say it in private may indicate to you that it may not be entirely your business, Captain,” Bilbo said. “But as it happens, it did concern you. He wished to put me on guard — he thought it possible that you held some measure of affection for me. He was warning me against entering any understanding too hastily, which means that your deception worked exactly as it ought. My congratulations to you, Captain, for your first performance.”

“You’re smiling altogether too broadly just to be pleased that Thorin put on a good show,” Mr. Balin said.

“Does His Majesty’s Navy teach impertinence as well as navigation and tying knots and all the rest of it?” Bilbo asked wonderingly, though she could not deny she was smiling very broadly indeed. “But I think _you_ , Mr. Balin, can guess why I am so pleased.”

“I can indeed, Miss Baggins,” said Mr. Balin, chuckling. “Congratulations on it — I know many a vicar who would envy you.”

“Mr. Balin can guess, but I cannot,” said Captain Oakenshield. “What is the significance? Does this farmer not think me good enough for you?”

“I’m sure he would have to know you better to think _that_ ,” Bilbo said solemnly. “But no — it is a bit more complicated.”

“The Church allows for _unmarried_ women to take orders,” Mr. Balin explained. “After all, there’s a bit of a surplus of young ladies in these war-torn times. But it’s generally understood that after a lady vicar marries, she’ll give up her post in favour of her duties as wife and mother.”

“And so for Mr. Gamgee to warn you against matrimony…” the captain said, slowly.

“Means that he wishes me to stay on as vicar. It’s a small thing, but you’ll soon find that Laketown is not given much to accepting outsiders. Change comes slowly, if it comes at all.”

“A strange way to express affection, by warning a woman against getting married,” Captain Oakenshield remarked.

“You may find it even stranger, then, to discover that not every woman _needs_ a warning against getting married,” Bilbo said as they approached the next house.

Mr. Balin had his hopes fulfilled and then some by the rounds they made; Mrs. McTiernan gave her tithes in warm bread from the oven that morning, and Mrs. Astredson had for her a baker’s dozen muffins made with the last of the winter berries.

“These Laketown folk are endlessly obliging,” Balin said happily, sampling one of the muffins.

“Indeed,” Captain Oakenshield said shortly, adjusting his grip on the two sackfuls of bread. 

Bilbo made no attempt to conceal her smile. Mrs. McTiernan had drawn her aside and spoken at length on the perfidy of navy men — “He may leave at _any moment_ , Miss Baggins,” she’d said, looking hopeful at the prospect — before reluctantly allowing Captain Oakenshield to carry the bread. It seemed that their scheme might work, after all.

And _her_ plan seemed to be working, as well: Mrs. Astredson had spoken of her husband’s coughing fits, and how they were getting worse now that the weather was turning warm once more. Captain Oakenshield had listened to her, and then to Bilbo as she had recommended nettle tea with honey. He had said nothing, but his expression indicated that he would not take the baronage ignorant of the plight of those under his charge. It was more than she had expected. Perhaps it would be enough.

They adjourned early, since Bilbo had her appointment with Sigrid at four. “Roper should have your mounts ready for you tomorrow morning,” she said at the gate, as the gentlemen prepared to depart. “I am not sure who amongst your Company you think should be his first pupils other than yourself, Captain. I leave that for you to decide.”

“I suppose I should thank you,” said Captain Oakenshield. 

“Aye, you should,” Mr. Balin muttered.

The captain glowered at him, but bowed to her readily enough. “Farewell, then. Until tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t wear anything too fine,” Mr. Balin assured her, clapping his commanding officer companionably on the back. “And thank you again for the food and company!”

***

Bilbo had just enough time to put away the bread and put a kettle on before there was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of it opening and Sigrid’s timid, “Miss Baggins?” from the front hall.

“In the kitchen!”

“Am I late? I’m so sorry, I had to walk to the Abbey and give Captain Oakenshield the spare keys to the servants’ entrance, since the housekeeper went off to see her aunt who’s poorly and she forgot to leave them.“ She kept up her monologue throughout her progress through the house; Bilbo could hear sounds of her removing her coat and setting down her books and bag on the parlour table as she spoke. “But then the captain wasn’t there and some of the sailors asked me questions about what they were allowed to drink from the wine cellar. Oh, muffins,” she concluded as she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.

Bilbo was an expert on deciphering Sigrid’s tone of voice. “No, they aren’t yours, and I’m sure they would suffer greatly by comparison,” she said, setting out the tray. “But a vicar must always be ready to make do. I think it only right that we consume these as quickly as possible, and save anyone else the displeasure of eating them.”

“Mrs. Astredson uses far too much flour,” Sigrid said, but took charge of the tray promptly and carried it back out to the parlour, where they discussed Sigrid’s latest reading.

“Although goodness knows what will come of it,” Bilbo said, accepting a cup, “If people were to find out I gave you anything by Mr. Paine whatever, much less _that_ pamphlet. I’d likely be flogged in the street.”

“I can’t understand why,” Sigrid said, turning the pages of _Rights of Man_ with one hand as she waved her muffin about in the other. “His arguments seem a good deal more reasonable than Mr. Burke’s.”

“Yes, that would be one reason for the flogging,” Bilbo said, laughing. “We live in a country that is governed by Mr. Burke’s ideals, though they are of course far older than that gentleman, and they have served us well. However compelling Mr. Paine’s answer might seem, the practical results of his ideas have been thus far been disastrous.”

“The American states do not seem so wholly disastrous,” argued Sigrid around a mouthful. She chewed for a moment, then added, “Well, apart from their recent action against us. But that seemed due more to foolhardiness on their part than any fundamental flaw in their self-governance.”

“Whereas I would say that their self-governance is flawed primarily by foolhardiness on a fundamental level.”

Instead of a rebuttal, Sigrid let out a giggle. “That was very nicely put, Miss Baggins. Let me guess: ‘a vicar must always be quick with clever phrases, lest—“

“Lest her flock discover that she is not quite as clever as her phrases suggest,” Bilbo finished, smiling. She was sure that the governesses of her youth and the professors of her college would be aghast at such good-natured mockery between instructor and pupil, but Bilbo was only too pleased. She could still clearly recall Sigrid as she had been when first Bilbo had arrived in Laketown: silent and grey-faced with strain, tending to her brother and sister and her grief-blinded father, unable to speak above a soft murmur. Coaxing her out of her dutiful dullness had been a task first for Bilbo and then, when Bard had at last put aside his own mourning and seen once more the family he had left, for both of them. It was oddly comforting to see the fruits of that labor at last coming to bear in Sigrid’s gentle ribbing.

They argued back and forth on the merits of _Rights of Man_ for the remainder of the afternoon, with no clear winner. “You would make a fine revolutionary,” Bilbo concluded, setting before Sigrid the first two volumes of Warren’s _History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution_ , “And by giving you these I am no doubt fomenting a rebellion in the Lakes District. But it is important for you to read as many histories written by women as possible. It is all too easy for men to forget us — Mr. Paine himself talked about the rights of _man_.”

“This was written by a lady?” Sigrid seized upon the volumes with eagerness.

“I hesitate to grant her that epithet — she _is_ an American,” Bilbo said drily. “But yes, Mrs. Warren’s work is quite remarkable, all the more so for her sex. I think you will find her interesting.”

“May I ask, Miss Baggins — why _do_ you have all these books about the American revolt? It seems a strange collection for you.” Sigrid blushed, and added, “That is, if you don’t think the question too forward.”

“It isn’t, but the answer is no less strange, I suppose.” Bilbo picked up _Rights of Man_ , and smoothed her hand over its cover. “My mother was the one who began and maintained the collection. She had a great interest in the Colonies — she lived there for a time when she was young.”

“She _did_?” Sigrid said wonderingly.

“She did. My mother was quite an adventuress,” Bilbo said. “In fact, she crossed the Atlantic four times — her last voyage back to England is when she met Mr. Gandalf. And since their friendship is what eventually brought me to Laketown, you can either thank her memory or not, as you please.”

“I would only neglect to do so on days when you give me lessons on geometry, for I still find it entirely useless. But today I am doubly thankful both for you and for her,” she said, holding aloft the first volume of Warren.

“Truly I do worry about what I may be teaching you. Perhaps it is good that we have these Navy men here; they can teach you something of patriotism to balance out your revolutionary bent. Though in truth you and Captain Oakenshield may get along altogether too well for my liking.”

“I should think it difficult for _anyone_ to get along with Captain Oakenshield,” Sigrid said as she reached for the last muffin. “He has such a severe countenance, don’t you think? When he first came to meet Father last week, he frightened Tilda with all his scowling.”

Bilbo’s smile faded. There was no teasing in Sigrid’s tone, and it was tempting in the extreme to agree with her, to share this moment of camaraderie. For all that Sigrid was only sixteen years of age, Bilbo found her a valued companion. At Oxford, Bilbo had been one of only a handful of women in the tenuously new-founded Ladies’ College; before her education she was an outlier in Hobbiton and after she was very nearly an outcast. Laketown had given her friends such as she had never known before: Sigrid and Gandalf and Bard and the Gamgees.

But just as Captain Oakenshield had promised to act the part of a man paying court, so now must she act the part of a woman being courted. She need not feign ardor or even reciprocation in order to allay suspicion — her role required only acknowledgment — and she could, if she wished, fulfil her end of the bargain by scorning his advances. Goodness knew she had seen enough girls and women treat the unwanted affections of unwanted men with similar dismissive attitudes. But she could not demand his pretended _amour_ only to repay it with revulsion. No; she would have to play her part in full, which meant playing the part to all those valued friends, only Gandalf excepted.

It was not that fact (unpalatable though it was) that caught in her throat, however. Watching Sigrid flip idly through the _History_ , she realised that this charade would signal an end to her confidences with her — and with Bard, and with shy Bain and bold little Tilda, and with all the other people of Laketown who sought counsel and comfort from her. She would have to deceive them every day from now until God only knew when. This scheme, hastily thought up in a moment of desperation, already felt dangerous, as though she were cutting herself adrift from the anchor that had kept her safe.

“It — does not seem so severe to me,” she said, and wondered if the lurch of her stomach was similar to the feel of a wave, pushing a lost boat further out to sea.


	5. Chapter 5

It was in very ill humour that Bilbo awoke the next day. She washed and dressed with a feeling of resentment for every motion; she wanted to lie back down in bed and pull the covers up and over her head, blotting out the rising sun. She suffered a sudden pang of longing for her mother, who had always laughed away Bilbo’s sulks and given her a book, a glass of water, and one of the kittens that were always demanding attention. “Go to bed, drink the water, read the book, pet Miss Priss here, and come down when your angries are out,” she’d advise, and kiss Bilbo’s nose.

Bilbo had only one cat in the house, a surly tom named Gollum who hated everything and everyone except her. The way he expressed this affection was in his frequent offerings of decapitated mice, usually deposited on her bedspread or once, memorably, on her pillow. It was this shortage of suitable felines, and not the self-admonition that she was far too old for “angries,” that stopped her now from applying her mother’s traditional remedy. Besides, she rather thought she had a more effective — though less traditional — remedy at hand. She donned her boots and an old dimity, folded her riding jacket over her arm and made her way down the stairs.

Mrs. Gamgee was in the kitchen. “Off for a ride this morning, Miss?” she asked, holding out the cup and saucer and a biscuit. Bilbo sat down at the table and received them with thanks.

“I thought I would keep Myrtle out of the way of Roper’s new pupils,” she said. “But I will certainly stay close — to lend my support, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Gamgee chortled. “You’re a kind and thoughtful vicar, I’ve always said so. And thank goodness for it, otherwise I’d suspect you of planning to laugh at those poor gentlemen as they fell off their horses.”

“I’m sure they’ll all be very fine riders in no time at all.”

“No time at all? That must be a curious long stretch of time, Miss.”

Bilbo finished off her tea and biscuit, tucking another one into the pocket of her dress and snatching a carrot from the pantry for Myrtle. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Gamgee. Good day!” And she tripped out the door, already feeling more cheerful.

Her spirits lifted further as she entered the barn, for Captain Oakenshield had brought Messrs. Fíli and Kíli and the charming Mr. Bofur. He was the first to catch sight of her; he bowed low, doffing his hat as he made a surprisingly good leg. “Miss Baggins!” he exclaimed, straightening up. “What a pleasure to see you again, though I wish the circumstances were not quite so straw-covered.”

“Good morning,” she said, and waved a greeting at Roper, who was adjusting the saddle of a pretty bay gelding. “I thought I might join you this morning, and ensure that my pony does not make a nuisance of herself while you try to get the gentlemen seated.”

“Very kind, though you’ll have to take her to Burnley to ensure that, Miss,” Roper grunted, tightening the girth.

“But your company is very welcome,” said — of all people — the captain, emerging from behind a large grey horse to make his own leg. “It was kind of you to think of us this morning.”

“I would not have missed this for the world,” she said, realising belatedly that Captain Oakenshield no doubt meant to sound charming and that she, in turn, should sound at least moderately charmed. She more likely sounded gleeful, if Roper’s snort was anything to go by. “And I am sure that your men will be inspired by your example,” she added, hoping it sounded adequately flattering.

“You’re surer than me,” Mr. Fíli muttered.

Bilbo was able to take a pleasant ride around the field alone before the men were ahorse, and observe their emergence from the barn from the safety of a hill on the far side of the property, near the garden. She waved to them; they all returned the salute, then (with various degrees of success) managed to regain hold of the reins they had let slip from their grasp. The large grey, upon which the captain was perched like some kind of unwieldy toy soldier on a child’s rocking-horse, immediately took advantage of its freedom in order to eat some of the grass at its feet. This resulted in riotous amusement from the other men, followed quickly by cries of dismay as Mr. Fíli and Mr. Bofur’s mounts had similar ideas.

However, Roper soon had them walking and even trotting in a haphazard circle around the field; each of them would tip their hat as they passed, which was all the more entertaining when it resulted in reins being slackened and horses veering off to sample the local foliage once more. Bilbo offered to take Myrtle in so as to be less of a distraction, but Roper just laughed as he clapped Myrtle on the neck.

“They’ll work all the harder to impress you,” he said in a low voice. “I reckon the captain might not be the only one staying in these parts because of the fresh air of the countryside, eh?”

Mrs. Gamgee, who had come out from the kitchen to join them and was presently scratching under Myrtle’s chin, sighed heavily. “If I were of a betting persuasion, Miss Baggins, I’d wager a shilling on your captain being the first to get his arse in the dirt.”

“I’ll argue both points,” Bilbo says. “Firstly, he’s hardly my captain, and secondly, he seems perfectly—“

She was, of course, interrupted by the large grey, who stopped suddenly and bent its head down, sending Captain Oakenshield tumbling over its head and into a bush.

By the time the clock struck eleven and the day’s lesson was concluded, all four sailors were bruised, sore, and (in the captain’s case) liberally doused with mud. Bilbo was obliged to wave off his valiant offer to accompany her on her rounds; instead she arranged for a coach to take them all back to Dale Abbey.

“Is this _normal_?” demanded Mr. Kíli, walking in a bowlegged way and wincing as he climbed aboard. “I’ve got sores in — well. I’ve got sores that no man should ever have to suffer.”

“I cannot answer that,” Bilbo said, “Since ladies ride more sensibly, if a bit more precariously. But I am sure Mr. Óin can see to your injuries.”

“And the injury done to our pride, Miss Baggins?” Mr. Bofur said despondently. “I doubt there’s salve in the world could tend to that.”

“Sigrid has told me that she has told _you_ that the cellar is full of wine and other spirits that you may sample freely, provided you reimburse your landlord at the end of the stay,” Bilbo said. “I am confident that that will remedy at least some of the damage done to your dignity.”

“Thank you, Miss Baggins. You’ve been only too kind,” said Captain Oakenshield, holding the door open for his men. She glanced up and saw his solemn look, and knew she was being teased. But somehow, after helping to pick him up three separate times in the past hour, she did not mind quite so much.

“I’ve been reliably informed that kindness is one of a vicar’s chief offices,” she said to him, “And so did no more than my duty. Good day, gentlemen — I trust I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

The expressions on their faces as the coach pulled away kept Bilbo in good cheer for the rest of the afternoon. 

It was a fraught few days as the Company painstakingly learned the fundamentals of riding. Bilbo did not attend every lesson, but was updated (with colourful commentary) on their progress by Mrs. Gamgee most evenings. She heard very little about it from Captain Oakenshield, who after that first difficult morning overcame his discomfort and accompanied her once more on her rounds.

“You have the look of someone who wishes to ask a question,” she observed of him one day, as they left the Northrop’s cottage. “I would be most obliged if you would simply ask it, rather than continue making a face like a suspicious badger.”

Captain Oakenshield snorted. “That’s a new insult; I’ll have to remember it.”

“Badgers are very admirable creatures. It’s no insult, I promise you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Captain Oakenshield. “And as for your being obliged — that is what I wanted to ask, but I have been debating the best way to phrase the question I wished to pose.”

“I’m surprised to know our courtship has progressed thus far, you being careful to frame questions _before_ you pose them.”

“On the contrary, the beginning of a courtship is when a gentleman should take the _most_ care,” he replied, handing her over a rather deep and wide puddle in the middle of the lane. 

“You _have_ given some consideration to your performance, haven’t you?” She was surprised. Over the course of this past week the captain had been, when in the company of the townsfolk, the very picture of a man beguiled. When they were alone, his demeanour altered to something she recognised and, in truth, preferred. But at no point had he seemed invested in the details of their imagined courtship beyond playacting.

“I give consideration to most things upon which my survival hinges,” he replied. “And I have found that in most relationships, amorous or not, it is the first impressions which are the most indelible.”

“Well do I know it,” Bilbo said blandly, swinging her basket in one hand.

“Later on,” he said, ignoring her remark, “When mutual interest and a friendly rapport have been established, a gentleman in love may be freer with his remarks, secure that the object of his affection harbours enough good-will toward him not to take offence at the least misstep he might take.”

“That sounds very much like a rebuke, Captain, but I assume that was not the question you wished to ask.”

“It is simply — I am puzzled by your manner, given your status in this village. You’re the vicar of Erebor, second in consequence only to Smaug and to Gandalf. Yet when you talk with the townspeople, you seem almost…” he seemed at a loss for the conclusion to the sentence.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Servile,” he said at last. “Perhaps that is not the right word. But the other day, asking Mr. Gamgee to arrange for the horses — you spoke a great deal of your indebtedness and your gratitude. And just now when we were at the Northrup’s house, you thanked Mrs. Northrup no end for returning a copy of a hymnal that she should have given back months before, if I understood the conversation correctly.”

“You did,” Bilbo said, greatly amused.

“Surely you can speak directly, without so many expressions of gratitude?”

“Spoken like a captain,” Bilbo said, shaking her head. “Or rather, spoken like a man, for I do not believe you so ignorant of the world that you believe every interaction should emulate those aboard a ship.”

“My thanks for giving me that much credit, Miss Baggins,” said the captain, dry.

“But you are still _somewhat_ ignorant, since you somehow believe that every interaction between people should be like every interaction between _men_. Gandalf could no doubt follow your direction and tell Roper to procure horses for his use with no more than a cursory acknowledgment, and perhaps he could even castigate poor Mrs. Northrup.”

“And so could _you_ ,” said the captain. “That is my point.”

“And _my_ point is that while you are perfectly correct in pointing out that I _could_ , you fail to understand that I could not do so without being painted as the harshest, most shrewish of women. What is admired as a direct, no-nonsense manner in a man is despised as ungrateful vulgarity in a woman. Even in this topsy-turvy world we find ourselves in, where women may be ordained or teach or even inherit property, a woman of any walk of life who behaves like a man would soon find herself reviled.”

“I can state personally that that is untrue,” protested the captain.

Bilbo raised her eyebrows. “Your beard is of excellent quality, if it is a false one.”

This made him smile. She was beginning to gain a sense of the things that amused him, though perhaps she ought not make a habit of indulging them. “To give a a well-mannered answer, I can only say that it does not come off,” he said. “But I have met women who act as men, and are treated thusly _as_ men.”

“That is a different matter,” Bilbo objected, “For those who are men in _all_ their actions are considered men under the law, just as those who are women in all their actions are women. But that is to my argument — it is _behaviour_ which distinguishes our sex from yours, and to behave as a man in this one regard would not make me a man — only a very disagreeable woman.”

“Then you believe that women should be more agreeable than men? I had not imagined that would be your stance.”

She ignored that very nobly. “I believe it is expectations, not ability, that burden women; without the weight of agreeableness and servility placed upon us, women might be in a great many more professions than that of cleric and clerk and schoolteacher. We might even join the Army, or the Navy — there have long been rumours of it.” She glanced at him sidelong to gauge his reaction to this notion, but he caught her eye and shook his head.

“Even if I _could_ confirm this, it would not be my place to do so,” he said. “The rules within His Majesty’s Navy are very different from civilian law, and the determination of who is male is more… base. An officer or sailor discovered to be female would face harsh consequences, regardless of the manner of his actions.”

“That is very wrong,” Bilbo sighed.

“On that, Miss Baggins, we at last find a point of accord. Those who can fight should be given the opportunity to do so. Our victory was too hard-won for me to scorn any hand that might come to my aid. Besides which—”

The pause in his speech was long enough to give Bilbo cause to look over at him. He had plucked a shaft of heather from the hedge and was methodically breaking it into pieces, his gaze not upon it but rather fixed on the horizon. He noticed her inquiring look and cleared his throat.

“I was going to say, I know well that there is a fighting spirit in every soul, no matter how they are clothed.”

“A poetic sentiment,” Bilbo remarked.

“I know the fighting spirit well,” he replied, with an odd lightness in his tone. “I have a younger sister who bested me in almost every quarrel when we were children.”

Bilbo thought perhaps to press further, but they came upon the next cottage and several children in the front lawn ran up to greet her and demand piggy-back rides from the captain, so she said only, “That is a better argument for the equality of the sexes than any I have yet heard.”

“You flatter me,” replied the captain, as a small child grabbed hold of his coattails.

***

Bard paid her a call on Saturday. “What have you been doing to those poor sailors?” he demanded.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bowman,” Bilbo replied, bemused. “Won’t you come in?”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” he said, but stepped through the doorway regardless. “I visited the Abbey to look in on my new tenants yesterday and found several of them limping around in appalling fashion, and when I asked what had felled them they pointed shaking fingers toward the Vicarage, croaking with voices that spoke of doom and disaster.”

“Now you see what comes of interfering with a lady’s pantry,” she replied, and he laughed.

It was their tradition to play a game when he visited, either of backgammon (which Bilbo was terrible at) or chess (which Bard was terrible at). Bilbo set out the board for backgammon, which made Bard narrow his eyes. “ _Voluntarily_?” he asked, nodding at the board. “The last time I thrashed you, you declared that backgammon was the daftest game ever invented by a league of rotten-brained nitwits.”

“I simply thought it would be a nice change. We’ve played chess four times in a row, after all.”

“And now you’re providing me with a rational explanation, instead of denying everything. I am now suspicious, Miss Baggins.” She scowled at him. He smiled back, but kindly. “Tell me your troubles, vicar, and I’ll share the load with you.”

“I’ve no troubles, excepting that you have yet to choose between black or red,” she told him firmly, sitting down in her chair.

“You always were a terrible liar,” he said as he sat down. Bilbo looked up at him, alarmed, but he was busy setting out his draughts and dropping the dice on the floor. “I remember the first year you were in the Running and lost your boot in the stream and kept insisting it was perfectly fine even though you were crying into your apron.”

“ _I_ remember a little boy who jumped in the stream and fetched it out, and then spent the next hour parading about with it as though it was a victory cup.”

“I was a _young man_ of almost nine, if you please,” Bard said reprovingly. “Not a little boy in the least. But now you are trying to change the subject, and I’m determined not to let you do it. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, good Lord, Bard. You’re like a dog with an old bone.”

“I am simply collecting more and more evidence that I’m right, and you calling me by my christian name is certainly one more point in my favour. What is it? Is it the baron’s return? I did hear he paid you a visit last Sunday, but since I didn’t see the stars fall from the sky I assumed it wasn’t true.”

“It was. He did. But it’s of no consequence—“

But Bard was now set on his path. “It certainly _is_ of consequence — you cancelled dinner with us. _Dinner!_ I’ve never known you to do that in the four years you’ve been here. That coupled with your interest in my tenants and their affairs leads me to believe that there’s some strangeness afoot.”

“I think I liked you better when you were not so curious,” Bilbo muttered, holding her hand out for the dice.

He did not give them to her. “Bilbo,” he said, seriously.

She let her hand drop. She found she could not look at him; the next thing she would say to him would be a lie, and whether or not he believed it, she did not want to remember the expression on his face as she spoke. “I am simply a bit… preoccupied. Captain Oakenshield has been very attentive since his arrival, you see.”

“If you mean to tell me you’ve falling in love with each other, I warn you that I shall laugh a great deal,” said Bard.

“Why would you laugh?” she demanded, indignation getting the better of her. “I’m hardly in the first blush of youth, it’s true, but—“

“Which is why I’d laugh. Not at _you_ , my dear Miss Baggins. You have lived your entire life as a lovely, lively, and very pretty woman, and it’s no wonder any man might pay his compliments. But that’s rather my point, you see — you _could_ , but you _haven’t_. Moreover, you took holy orders.”

“Perhaps I just wanted something to do with my time until I found the right gentleman to marry.”

“Perhaps you did. But here in Laketown you are of more consequence than any other woman here. Even if you were to marry the rector or the baron — and I hope you will not mind my saying that I would advise against an alliance with either — you would not elevate your station. You would only maintain it, and what is worse, you would have to be the wife to someone who might think they could order you about.” Bard considered for a moment. “Well, Mr. Gandalf isn’t so foolhardy. But the baron would no doubt be in for a nasty shock.”

“And you think I am so attached to my position that I would not consider an offer that might diminish it.”

“I think,” Bard said, with his peculiar smile, “That it would take a more impressive man than Captain Oakenshield to turn your head.”

Bilbo looked down at the board, ensuring all the draughts were in their proper place. “You do not think highly of your tenant, then.”

“I think very highly of him. But I do not see why his attentions would cause you the least concern, since they are not, as I have successfully proven through my stunning use of logic, reciprocated.”

He was right, and Bilbo could not admit otherwise. “Well,” she tried, “Perhaps I am considering the best way to refuse his advances.”

“No, I’m afraid that’s not going to do for me, either,” Bard said, leaning back in the chair. “I still remember you as a mule-stubborn girl who stomped on my foot the first — and only — time I tried to steal a kiss from you when we were five years old. If Captain Oakenshield has made himself uncomfortable, you would not hesitate to send him off with a flea in his ear, of that I am certain.”

“Such an oppression of logic, Mr. Bowman, I’m quite suffocated with it. I can only respond to them with feminine illogic and once more insist that nothing is wrong — or at least so wrong as _you_ suppose.”

“Very well, keep your secrets.” Bard regarded her thoughtfully. “But I hope you know that you _can_ come to me, should you need to. My family and I owe you a great deal.”

“I would say something reassuring on the matter, if I were not struck mute with terror at the thought that you will simply add such a reassurance to your pile of evidence that something is troubling me and continue to pester me instead of handing over the dice.” She held out her hand once again and this time, he cordially passed them to her. “Unless, perhaps, this has all been a gambit to make me lose.”

“I don’t need a _gambit_ to make you lose, since you refuse to remember the rules from one game to the next,” Bard said.

“This from the man who persists in giving every piece on a chessboard the wrong characteristic? And cannot remember how a knight moves even when you ascribe his job to the rook.”

“It is hardly my fault that the person who devised the game of chess was drunk and furthermore had never seen a battlefield!”

“Nor have _you_ , I might point out.” And they fell to bickering as they played.

***

The next morning Bilbo was at the church early when she heard the front door open. Abandoning her search for her tippet, she went to see who it was and was greeted by the sight of Captain Oakenshield, doffing his cap. “What are _you_ doing here?” she asked, surprised.

“Always a pleasure to wish you a good morning, Miss Baggins,” he replied, and followed her back to her office. “May I come in?” he said at the doorway.

“Of course,” she said. “And in fact, you can make yourself useful. I’ve lost my tippet and I’ve spent twenty minutes searching for it when I should have been deciding on what sermon to read.” She went back to her desk and snatched up her copy of _The Book of Homilies_ , pressing it into his hands. “Sigrid isn’t yet here, so you can decide what I should lecture everyone about this week.”

“Last Sunday you wrote us a halting sermon of your own pure brain; are we to be fobbed off with one of these?” He perched himself on the corner of her desk.

“I warn you,” Bilbo said, resuming her search amongst the choir robes that hung in thickets along the back wall of her office, “That if you are casting me as Benedick, that will make _you_ Beatrice; and I doubt very much there was a star danced when _you_ were born.”

Behind her, the captain snorted amusement. “My men have been all about town and from everyone they meet, they hear nothing but the highest praises for your gentility, kindness, and temperance. You have duped them all.”

It was spoken in jest but cut deeper than he could have known, and she was glad she had her back to him. “That reminds me of a question I meant to ask,” she said, “Though I am sure to you the question sounds foolish, and indeed I believe I already know the answer, but it is well to be certain.”

“You’re prevaricating more than I did the other day,” Captain Oakenshield said, sounding absent-minded; there was the sound of pages being turned. “What is your question?”

“Gandalf knows of our scheme, as does Mr. Balin,” she said, abandoning the robes and instead looking on the top shelf where she was fairly sure there lay a spare. “But as for the others in our confidence — I assume that all of your men know that whatever affection you express for me is not genuine?”

“I’m afraid it could hardly be otherwise. My change in manner toward you would not be remarked upon amongst the townspeople, since they do not know me at present and cannot predict my ways; but it would not have been in the least possible to convince eleven men who know me as well as my Company does that I have changed so quickly in my opinion of you. Besides, they all know my true aim in being here, and I’d have difficulty including them in my plans if I was obliged to deceive them.”

“That is very sensible,” Bilbo said, sighing. At last she found her spare tippet in the corner. It was a bit dusty but not nearly so wrinkled as she had feared. She brushed it off and put it carefully over her shoulders, then turned to see the captain watching her, puzzled. “Yes?”

“No remonstration that I ought to tell them to mind their tongues?” he inquired. “I expected at least _that_ much.”

“Anyone who would follow you all this way, knowing your quest and its object, will have earned the right to be trusted with a far less significant secret,” she said. And it was true; she could not reproach him. But it once again underscored her own predicament, and she could not help but be wistful.

“I am sorry if it weighs heavily upon you,” the captain said, most unexpectedly. “It was not my intention to burden you in this manner.”

“I know: you asked me to be a thief, not a liar.” It sounded to her ears even harsher than she had meant it, but she did not beg pardon.

Nor did he take umbrage. “And had you done what I asked, it is possible that circumstances would be now as I had envisioned them at the outset,” he said, sounding matter-of-fact. “As it stands, however, I have fallen back on an alternate plan.”

“What is it? Surely you cannot still be thinking of… somehow gaining entry to the estate and looking for the safe yourself.”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Do you truly _have_ an alternate plan?” she asked, disbelieving.

“You must think me a poor captain, to enter into action without one. I assure you that I do — but Miss Baggins, I have once before made the mistake of forcing you into my confidence before securing your support.”

“So you trust your men not to tell anyone, but not me,” she concluded.

“I trust you a good deal,” he said. “More than I trust most — certainly more than I trust Gandalf. What I  fear is that you will be placed into a situation where you _must_ tell someone. I know you now to be an excellent actress—“

“Thank you very much indeed—“

“But the truth is your best refuge. Under duress or threats, you can maintain your innocence, and I know enough of strategy to know that it will shield you better than I can.”

“Do you think that it will come to that?” she asked around the lump in her throat. She did not at all like the idea of duress _or_ threats.

“I do not know,” he replied. “I suppose it depends in part on the job we do today of convincing your baron that my love for you is blossoming like the fields of spring. Out of curiosity, what are your feelings toward _me_? I have noticed a slight difference in your manner when we are alone as opposed to when we are amongst the townsfolk, but I confess the paramour is uneasy by the simple cordiality afforded him.”

“He can remain uneasy as long as he likes,” Bilbo replied, “For _she_ has not yet decided if a captain of the fleet, be his neckcloth ever so well-starched, is worth abandoning her post and position. But that explains why you have come at this early hour today, when I would have expected you to seize upon one of the two days of the week that you are not obliged to see me at all — or did Gandalf never get ‘round to informing you that tenants at Dale Abbey usually attend services at Laketown Church?”

“He did, but I thought my attendance here would lend weight to the rumours, which I trust are in full flight, about my intentions toward you,” said the captain, flipping idly through the book of sermons.

“It will certainly establish you as eager to please,” Bilbo said. “And I take it the rest of your Company will follow at a more reasonable hour?”

“No, they have all resolved to attend Gandalf’s church, as he mentioned the possibility of sweets being handed out at the end of the service,” he replied, frowning at a page. “There is a sermon here for the reformation of prostitutes,” he announced.

“Yes, thank you, that will _not_ be the one I shall read today,” she said, plucking the book out of his grasp.

“A wise choice,” he murmured, and she looked up, realising she was standing rather closer than propriety dictated. He had a slightly hooked nose, she noticed for the first time, like the wicked uncle in a fairy tale. It was curious that this did not render him villainous in appearance. In fact it was an oddly pleasing defect, as though to balance out the perfect regularity of his other features.

“I still have your scarf,” she realised all of a sudden.

“You should wear it,” said the captain, not moving away.

“To lend more credence to our courtship?”

“That,” he agreed, “And it suits you. I thought so the day I lent it to you.”

“It is grey,” she pointed out. “If you mean to issue me a compliment, you are going about it entirely the wrong way, as no woman wishes to be told her complexion favours grey.”

“It is _silver_ ,” he corrected, “And it matches just so the colour of your eyes when you’re displeased at something, as I have had ample time to observe.”

“Your compliments are _astoundingly_ bad,” she told him.

“I will endeavour to—“

But whatever his endeavours were to be, they were interrupted by the arrival of Sigrid, who burst through the front doors and shortly through the office doorway with her customary breathlessness. “I’m sorry to be late, Miss Baggins, I didn’t — oh.” She caught herself short at the sight of Captain Oakenshield. “Captain, good morning.”

“Good morning, Miss Bowman,” said Captain Oakenshield, getting to his feet.

It was this motion, rather than his greeting, that seemed to have an impression on Sigrid. “ _Oh_ ,” she repeated, then seemed to recollect herself. “I shall prepare the pulpit and leave you — alone. That is — I mean I shall be up at the front. Should you need me. Which I am sure you will not—“ And she fled from the scene, still wearing her coat and bonnet.

“I fear we may have astonished her,” the captain said, musingly.

“Find a pew and sit down,” Bilbo instructed him, pointing out the door, “And try not to astonish anyone else.”

“As you wish,” he said, and took her book of sermons back from her. “I have not yet discharged the duty imposed upon me,” he explained when she uttered a protest. “I promise to do so before the service begins.” He bowed himself out of the room and left her to sputter after him.

Normally she would barricade herself in her office before services and wait for the bells to signal her, but she was too conscious of the danger in leaving Captain Oakenshield and Smaug to make each other’s acquaintance unsupervised. Directly upon putting on the robes of her office she stood at the front doors and greeted the parishioners as they arrived. She was joined shortly thereafter by Sigrid.

“Your dalmatic is not tied correctly,” Bilbo observed.

“You were flirting with my father’s tenant,” Sigrid answered, sing-song.

Bilbo was saved from further needling by the arrival of Smaug’s coach just as the bells began to toll. The baron emerged, followed by his steward. Mr. Master looked as fawning today as he had looked haughty last week, but from Smaug’s expression Bilbo could draw no conclusions. “Good morning, Lord John,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to have you back amongst your congregation. Mr. Master,” she added as the gentleman mounted the stairs rather more slowly than his employer.

“With ladies such as these to welcome me, how could I have stayed away?” Smaug replied, tipping his hat. “But I am sure I am delaying you — shall we make our entrance?”

Upon the appearance of the baron, the entire congregation got to their feet. She led the small party up the central passageway, feeling as though she were bracing herself for a blow. She was not sure where Captain Oakenshield had situated himself and she dared not look for him. It was almost a relief when there was a movement to her left; he was standing next to the Gamgees, holding up her book with his index finger marking a place.

“I believe this may be just the sermon for today, Miss Baggins,” he said, bowing slightly to her.

“Oh — yes, thank you very much, Captain,” she said, taking the book from him and holding the place he had kept with her own finger. “That was very kind of you.” She wondered if the tremor in her voice would be interpreted as shyness rather than dread.

“ _Very_ kind,” said Smaug, coming up behind her. “I take it this is the famous captain? I would be most honoured, vicar, if you would introduce us.”

Bilbo tried to catch Captain Oakenshield’s eye, but he had already turned toward Smaug with a vaguely friendly countenance. “I would not have the elderly amongst our congregation wait upon an introduction,” she said, gesturing to the congregation still standing.

“I’m sure they will forgive you for the delay,” Smaug replied carelessly, with steel underneath. “Miss Baggins, if you would be so kind? As you said, the entire congregation is waiting.”

There was nothing else to be done. “My Lord John, may I present Captain Oakenshield of His Majesty’s Navy. Captain, this is Lord John Smaug of Erebor and his steward, Mr. Stephen Master. Take this,” she added to Sigrid, handing off the book, “And place it on the pulpit opened to this page, there’s a good girl.”

“I have heard something of you already,” Smaug was saying, shaking hands with the captain. “You’ve come to Laketown on… business?”

“I’ve come to make a home here, I hope,” replied the captain. “My old friend Mr. Gandalf told me of the beauty of the Lakes District, and I’ve found all his descriptions to fall hopelessly short of the reality.”

“Have you, indeed?” Smaug asked. “And Miss Baggins — she is an old friend of Mr. Gandalf’s, too. Did he try describing _her_ beauty?” It might have been a very amiable question, but it had all the weight of an insult. Bilbo felt her cheeks warm. 

But Captain Oakenshield smiled broadly. “No description would do Miss Baggins justice, I believe. But I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said, turning his attention to her, “For we’ve kept you from your office. Please forgive us both.”

This impertinence — asking for forgiveness not only on his own behalf, but on the baron’s — caused those within earshot to inhale just loudly enough to be audible. Bilbo made some response and escaped to her pulpit, where she watched Smaug walk sedately to his own place. His features were still perfectly sanguine, but Bilbo looked to Mr. Master — _that_ worthy looked most extremely agitated.

The sermon open before her bore the title “Love Hath Many Formes.” She vowed to have Captain Oakenshield trampled by his own horse at the nearest opportunity.

***

But it was not the captain who next suffered an injury.

By the following Wednesday, Captain Oakenshield and his nephews seemed tolerably able to keep their horses under their command, and Roper agreed that it would do no harm for the three of them to take exercise along the lane which wound from Vicarage Farm toward Erebor Park. Mindful that she was still not apprised of the captain’s new plans to encroach upon the estate, Bilbo joined their number. She did not hope that she could stop whatever scheme they had in mind if they were determined, but nor did she feel it was right to leave them unsupervised.

She need not have feared on that account. The sailors were still far too new in the saddle to manage anything more than a leisurely pace, and conversation centred largely on the discomfort of the saddles and, for Fíli’s and Kíli’s part, expressions of envy for Bilbo’s side-saddle.

“I would advise against trying it,” she said, amused. “The balance required is more than moderately challenging, and as you see I am obliged to face mostly to the left. Conversing with anyone to the right of me would be quite awkward. It is far more pleasant to sit facing front, albeit perhaps less comfortable at first.”

“ _Perhaps_ , she calls it!” cried Kíli. “I think it a cruelty beyond bearing that you will not allow us to try your saddle. But perhaps one might make do with this contraption.” And he kicked off his right stirrup and threw his leg forward over his horse’s neck.

His mount, an amiable chestnut called Daisy, bore this with good humour, but the empty stirrup knocking into her side caused her head to rear up slightly. Even this slight movement, however, was catastrophic; for instead of swinging clean, Kíli’s boot connected with her neck and startled her further. She twitched to one side and Kíli, whose balance was precarious in the extreme, fell off. For a moment his left foot was caught in the stirrup and she feared he would be dragged off as Daisy trotted away, but after a second or two he freed himself and lay gasping on the ground.

Hastily Bilbo dismounted and rushed to Kíli’s side. He was white as a sheet, the shock not yet overpowered by pain. “Don’t move,” she instructed, for she could see right away that he had done something to his shoulder.

“Damn — I beg your pardon,” he gasped, looking sick.

“It’s quite all right. Just breathe for a moment.”

She was joined by Fíli an instant later. “What is it?” he asked.

“I suspect he has dislocated his shoulder,” she said, loosening Kíli’s neckcloth and unbuttoning his jacket, “But I wish to make sure.”

“Miss Baggins,” said Captain Oakenshield urgently, appearing at her side, “If you would allow me—“

“I _have_ seen a dislocated arm before,” she said, exasperated, “And I would wager I have more medical experience than the both of you gallants put together.”

“Yes,” Fíli said, looking apprehensive, “But—“

“It’s all right,” Kíli said, but he seemed to be addressing his brother and his uncle, not her. “I believe Miss Baggins will not be shocked.”

“By the sight of a boy’s bare shoulder?” she scoffed, shaking her head and smiling as she unbuttoned his tunic. “No, indeed, I should be—“ But she did not speak further, for the sight underneath Kíli’s tunic was not of a bare shoulder at all.

There was, instead, a light-coloured silk undershirt, over which a sort of bandage had been wound about Kíli’s torso from just under the arms to just above the ribcage. It did not appear to be covering any wound; in fact the first thought Bilbo had was a strange one, an errant memory of her schooling days and helping to bind Petunia’s breasts so that she could play the role of Monsieur Valentine in _The Stranger Dance_.

She blinked for a moment, before looking up to Kíli. “Oh,” she said. “Well. That is — never mind.”

“I’ve had that reaction before, from pretty ladies,” Kíli replied, with a broad grin that Bilbo suspected was calculated to make Captain Oakenshield scowl, “But I can say I’ve never before been so happy to hear it.”

“That remark is indelicate in the extreme, but I will excuse you due to great pain.” Bilbo continued her examination. The shoulder was, indeed, badly out of joint. “We must get you to Dr. Elrond at once.”

At that, Kíli’s smile vanished as though it had been snuffed out. “No,” he said, in such a tone as she had never heard from him, wildly different from the teasing in his voice a moment ago. It was more of a surprise to her than anything else that had transpired.

“As I said before, Miss Baggins,” Captain Oakenshield said, “The law is still on the books. If we can get him back to the Abbey, Mr. Óin can see to him.”

“‘See — to _him’_?” Bilbo repeated.

“ _Yes_ ,” said the captain, glaring fiercely at her. “ _Him_.”

Bilbo flushed, but tried to hold onto the facts at hand as she addressed Kíli. “The Abbey is five miles away. You cannot possibly walk that far, for I believe your ankle is sprained as well.”

“I believe it, too,” he said, regretfully.

“Perhaps if we can have a coach,” suggested Fíli, “We can get him there in short order.”

“The nearest household is Erebor, and—“ Bilbo paused to confirm what she’d suspected, “And Myrtle has lead all our mounts back toward the stables.”

Fíli and Captain Oakenshield looked around wildly at this news. Sure enough, the swishing tails of their brave steeds could be seen making off at a determined pace back toward Vicarage Farm.

“Well, at least Roper will realise something has happened and come after us,” Kíli said. “There’s that to hope for.”

Bilbo got to her feet. “I will go and fetch a coach from the baron,” she said, and staved off the protest she saw forming on Captain Oakenshield’s lips. “You cannot risk the well-being of your nephew for the sake of a quest. And even if you can, _I_ will not.”

“That was not the objection I was going to lodge,” Captain Oakenshield said. “I was more concerned about your resolution to go alone.”

At that, Bilbo scoffed. “Should any ruffians accost me, I promise to direct them to you, and the three of you can fight them off on my behalf. I shall return as soon as I can.”

The walk to the gates of Erebor Park was not long, but Bilbo felt that however quickly she walked she was still moving through treacle, painfully slow. At last the scrolled gates came into view — but just as she entered them, she heard the noise of carriage wheels behind her. A convoy, coming from the opposite direction she had come, was fast approaching.

She stepped off the road but raised her hand to the coachmen. “Pray excuse me!” she called.

The first carriage, an unfamiliar and ornate barouche, clattered on without the least sign of slowing and quickly disappeared around a bend in the drive. The second and third coaches seemed likewise oblivious. But the fourth — a phaeton with two fine horses in harness — slowed and stopped, and the driver inquired, “Can I be of service, madam?”

For a moment, Bilbo was struck dumb. The driver was clearly a young lady, but she wore a gentleman’s coat with buckskins and boots instead of a traveling dress. Her head was capped by a fashionable d’Orsay rather than a straw bonnet, and her bright red hair was braided carelessly over one shoulder, its affixing ribbon matching exactly the colour of her grey-green eyes.

“I — yes, thank you,” Bilbo said, shaking off her surprise. Now was not the time to wonder at the fashions of London gentry, for surely this young lady belonged to the party Smaug had mentioned the week previous. “I’m afraid one of my friends has met with an accident down the road, and I would be obliged if you could convey me to Lord John of Erebor’s house so that I may request a coach to convey my friend home.”

“If it is only one friend who requires transport,” the young lady replied, standing up and reaching out a hand to her, “Then let us not disturb the baron.”

Without further ado Bilbo found herself pulled up onto the seat. The young lady pulled around and turned her pair back out onto the lane. “Thank you very much,” she said hesitatingly. “I hope you do not mind me introducing myself — I am Miss Bilbo Baggins, the local vicar.”

“That’s quite a relief,” replied the young lady, watching the road. “A vicar is an unlikely shill for a pack of vagabonds looking to rob travellers on the road, which is what I thought you might be.”

“At nine o’clock in the morning?” Bilbo said, and the young lady laughed.

“I know little of country matters, I will confess,” she replied. “I believe we have arrived.”

She was correct. The trio was standing at the side of the road and, when the young lady leapt down without assistance, Captain Oakenshield circled around to offer his hand to Bilbo (who was rather less practiced in the dismounting of high flyers). “This is not a coach,” he observed.

“Nor is she the baron,” she agreed. “I shall explain later.”

The young lady had already gone to Kíli’s side. Fíli or Captain Oakenshield had buttoned Kíli’s coat back up again and Fíli was keeping him upright as he stood on one leg. “Can you brace him?” asked the lady to Fíli, stripping off her gloves.

“I _can_ ,” Fíli replied dubiously.

“You don’t mean to put the shoulder back yourself,” protested the captain, eyeing the young lady with a dubious expression.

“I certainly do,” she replied coolly. “Wherever a doctor might be in this corner of the wilderness, he will not arrive soon enough to prevent serious and perhaps lasting damage. The joint must be set right. I can assure you that I have performed just such an operation on more than one occasion.”

“Operation?” Kíli said, alarmed.

“On my count,” said the young lady, gripping Kíli’s arm. Fíli, understanding her meaning, took hold of Kíli’s waist and opposite shoulder.

“Wait,” said the captain.

“ _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo hissed, clutching his sleeve to prevent his interference. He looked down at her hand as though surprised at its existence, then looked askance at her. “It would not be wise to distract them,” she said. To her amazement, he subsided, though he looked tense in every line.

“One, two—“ and the young lady twisted Kíli’s arm in some complex manoeuvre. There was a faint snapping sound and Kíli gasped.

“Da — oh. That’s… much better,” he said wonderingly, moving his arm. But the young lady restrained him.

“The swelling will set in shortly, so if there is a medic or surgeon or whoever it is that cures dropsy in your cows who can see to you, I will be happy to convey you there.” She looked over the party with an unimpressed expression. “I suppose I can fit the vicar, as well, to ensure propriety — I’ve heard great store is set by chaperonage in the country. But the other gentlemen will have to walk.”

“You have our profound gratitude,” intervened Bilbo, for she could see familiar stormclouds gathering on the captain’s brow. “Captain, I trust you and your nephew can make you way back to the Abbey unaided?”

“I’ve crossed the Atlantic eight times, madam,” he retorted. “I will endeavour to rise to this occasion.”

The very idea that he might be out of humour with the situation was so irritating that she made no answer, but simply clambered up once more. She helped seat Kíli beside her so that she was situated, rather more cosily than comfortably, in between. As the young lady to her left urged the horses (who, unlike Myrtle and her co-conspirators, had remained perfectly still throughout the interlude) and the phaeton lurched into motion, Kíli (on her right) made a pained noise.

“Do you need to be sick?” Bilbo asked, for she knew that great pain often brought with it nausea of the most violent kind.

“Be sure to lean well out,” advised the young lady.

“It’s not that,” Kíli said mournfully. “It’s my ankle. What if Óin tries to cut my boot off? These were bought new just last month!”

The young lady looked disgusted, but Bilbo could not help laughing. Whatever honorific Kíli might place in front of his name, there was no difference in his manner, nor in Bilbo’s fondness for him, now that she knew rather more about him than she had a scant hour ago. “I shall do my utmost to make sure that your boots stay intact,” she promised.

It did not seem to relieve Kíli greatly. “I hope you aren’t _too_ upset with me,” he said in a low, tense voice. “For… everything.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson about the dangers of riding an improvised side saddle — all the moreso if your boot is sacrificed,” Bilbo replied teasingly, before realising what he meant. “And no, not upset in the least, Mr. Kíli. But we’ll talk later.”

It hardly signified; their driver seemed scarcely aware of their existence, much less their murmured exchange. She spoke only to enquire direction, and for the next twenty minutes every one of Kíli’s various attempts to engage the young lady in conversation failed utterly (“It’s a nice carriage you’ve got.” “Yes, it is.” “Lovely weather?” “Yes, it is.”) until the poor soul made a helpless face at Bilbo in defeat.

Upon arrival at the Abbey, their escort observed the departure of her charges without herself alighting from the phaeton. “Thank you again, Miss…?” Bilbo said, as the Company (who had tumbled out of the house to assist Kíli and had already dragged him inside with promises of brandy) departed.

“Your servant, Miss,” the lady said, tipping her hat sardonically, and drove off without another word.

Bilbo watched her go, and stood outside for a few more minutes to collect her wits. The events of the past few hours were still a jumble in her mind; surprise and not a little confusion being the chiefest emotions. But she recalled her promise to Kíli, and went within to see if she could salvage the boots.


	6. Chapter 6

Aiding Kíli was more difficult task than Bilbo had envisioned; the Company, clearly at a loss what to do with her in the absence of their captain, tried to shunt her off into the drawing room. “It’s very comfortable in there,” said one of them, a grey-haired, worry-browed man with an intricately braided queue. “There’s a fire lit and I can bring you some camomile quick as anything.”

“I’d rather assist Mr. Óin, if it’s all the same,” Bilbo said, whereupon a veritable wall of sailors all but barricaded her into the drawing room and shut the door in her face, she was left to fret in solitude. She could hear sounds of activity throughout the house — Kíli shouting about something, an argument amongst her hosts as to what to do with her until Thorin got back — but it was not until the grey-haired fellow returned that she was awarded the sight of anyone else.

“Thank you — Mr. Dori, I believe?” she asked, accepting the tray of tea and pastries he set down on the table. It had been almost a half-hour and she was more than a little impatient, but Mr. Dori had the expression of someone who responded best to gentle handling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“You were the gentleman who complimented my doily collection, as I recall. It is rare to find a man with an appreciation for tatting.”

This had the intended effect: Mr. Dori smiled shyly. “Well, I won’t deny it was very lovely work, ma’am.”

“Thank you very kindly,” Bilbo said. “I was wondering, is Mr. Balin or Mr. Bofur here? I’d like to speak to them, if I may.”

“They’ve gone into town with Bifur. But I’m sure they’ll be back soon and someone can… take you home?” he said, as though trying to guess. “Or maybe you’re waiting on Thorin?”

Just then the door opened and Mr. Óin came in. “Ah, Miss Baggins,” he said, squinting at her. “Kíli sent me down to let you know the boots are all right.”

“That is excellent news,” Bilbo said then repeated it when he lifted a hearing-trumpet to his ear. “Thank you for your trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Mr. Óin said, half-shouting at her the way he seemed to do to everyone. “I dolloped a fair swig of brandy down his throat before yanking them off. Tends to lubricate most business.”

Mr. Dori looked scandalised. Bilbo ignored him to ask, “And his shoulder?”

“Whoever set it — Kíli claims it was an angel sent from Heaven, but that seems unlikely — did a fair job. He’ll be feeling no pain today. Tomorrow might be a wee bit trying.”

“I quite understand,” Bilbo said. “May I go in and see him?”

“I’m not sure if that’s altogether a good idea,” Mr. Óin said hastily as Dori said something about the tea going cold. “Been an eventful morning, and all that.”

Mr. Dori nodded at this and added, “And I’m sure the captain will be returning any moment—“

They were interrupted by Kíli’s voice booming from upstairs and through the open door. _“Bring forth the cleric!”_

“Your pardon, gentlemen, but it appears I’ve been summoned,” Bilbo said gravely. 

She went up the staircase and found herself in a long hallway, with doors branching from either side and a tall window at the far end. The only open door was the second on the left; she went to stand at the entrance. Two beds stood at opposite sides. At the foot of each was a battered trunk, both older and more scarred than either of their owners. The furnishings were spare — a desk, a washbasin — but the large windows that overlooked the park made the room seem clean rather than stark. 

Kíli waved at her from the far bed, and she fetched the chair from the desk and sat it down next to him. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Incredibly, _marvellously_ excellent. Óin’s been squirrelling away forty-year-old brandy, did you know that? Apparently this,” he gestured to his arm, now in a sling, “Merits a special occasion. Pretty marvellous stuff. Did you ever get that marvellous girl’s name? She was…” he blew out a breath in search of the right word.

“Marvellous?” Bilbo guessed.

“You are so very clever, Miss Baggins, I’ve always thought so.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, “You’ve a higher opinion of me than does your uncle.”

“It’s not that,” Kíli said, then hiccuped. “Although. We _should_ talk. Especially while Fíli and Uncle are still tromping up and down the countryside.”

“Let us hope they do not get lost.”

“That’d be a shame,” Kíli said mournfully, then hiccuped again. “But I wanted to talk at you. On you. _To_ you. Make sure you were—“ and he seemed at a loss again, so spun his hand in vague circles as he pursed his lips.

“I am. Or perhaps I am not, since I don’t know how you’re going to end that sentence,” she said, smiling.

“Haven’t the faintest notion myself,” Kíli said. He rubbed at his face with his good arm. “You’re not upset!” he exclaimed, as though suddenly remembering. “Not in the least. That’s what you said before.”

“No, I am not,” she said. “Surprised, perhaps.”

This made Kíli smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I? Not that I’ve anything _against_ women, as a whole.”

“Yes, I surmised your admiration after the paeans you sang to your marvellous benefactor.”

“She really is, isn’t she,” Kíli sighed, before turning his attention back to her. “I’ll admit,” he said, with the frank tone of someone too jug-bitten to be anything but shatteringly honest, “I half-expected you not to understand what the bandages were about in the first place. How did you guess?”

“I’ve seen that sort of binding before,” she said. “I once helped a school friend of mine, a girl named—“

“I’m _not_ a girl,” Kíli said, with all the weight in his voice that she remembered from earlier, when he had refused to see Dr. Elrond.

“Oh — of course,” Bilbo said, hastily. “That is, of course you are _not_ —“ She shook her head. “I’m making a muddle.”

“Not a very bad one,” said Kíli, and when she chanced a look at him he was smiling slightly. “It’s just — there _are_ women in the Navy, you see. Two in our Company, ’s’matter of fact. And I’ve met plenty of others, great fighters — fearless. But that’s not me. That’s not who I am.”

Bilbo lifted her hand, forestalling him. “Do you _want_ to tell me this?” she asked. “You’ve had a bad spill, and Mr. Óin did mention that he had… medicated you.”

“He stopped up my nose and poured half a bottle down my throat,” Kíli corrected her. “I’m not medicated, I’m drunk.”

“I mean to say that perhaps we should talk later, when you’re not quite so…”

“On my arse?” he supplied. “I suppose you’re right, but by the time I’m sober Fíli and Uncle will have arrived and bundled you off and Uncle will have tried to threaten you with the lash or the plank or something if you tell anyone. He means well,” he added.

“It does him credit,” Bilbo said. “He wants to protect you.”

“I don’t need it,” Kíli retorted. “I’m a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy. Old enough to do my _own_ threatening.”

“And do you mean to threaten me?” asked Bilbo. She was not sure of the answer; she did not altogether trust the anger in Kíli’s eyes.

But when he heard the question, he plucked at the sling holding his arm. “I will _ask_ that you not let this be known.” He looked up at her, and swallowed. “I won’t threaten. But if word of this got back to the fleet, it… wouldn’t be good.”

“Are the consequences very dire?” she asked.

“All consequences are dire, in the Navy,” he said, attempting to sound careless, though it seemed hollow. “Any foreign power that captures a woman aboard a battle frigate will not hesitate to exploit her, so the Navy can be no less _stringent_ in its dealing with those who would serve under false pretences. That’s a quote, you know. From an admiral who was dining at my uncle’s table, eating Bombur’s food, less than a week after Nori saved his skin in a skirmish near Toulon. The admiralty doesn’t care about anything but what’s down my trousers. And if they found out—“ he sighed. “It probably doesn’t sound so very dire, to you. I’d not be subject to the lash, or to prison. I’d just be thrown out on my ear.”

“So it _is_ dire,” Bilbo observed. “To _you._ ”

Kíli looked out the window. “Perhaps it would be for the best,” he said. “Uncle — he wants us to stay together, you see, even though Fíli and me just got our lieutenant grade. Fíli could be a captain one day. But Uncle’s got _ideas_ — the line of Durin restored, the honors given back to our family. No more scraping by on old Spanish galleons captured in the Adriatic.”

“That sounds like a quote as well.”

“It is,” he said. He squirmed about for a moment, reaching into his left pocket awkwardly with his good right hand. He withdrew a snuff-box, a pretty tortoiseshell thing that he handed over to her. “I can’t quite manage the lid.”

She opened it for him, but there was no tobacco, only a lock of dark brown hair the same shade as Kíli’s. On the lid was a portrait miniature of a lovely young woman, with Fíli’s ready smile; around the edges were words, the lettering too fine for her to easily make out. She looked up at Kíli. “Your mother?” she guessed.

“She married a sailor, and she knew he’d be gone more often than he’d be home. It’s got the Eredson family saying done up in Latin or Greek or something — translates to ‘take care and come home.’ She gave it to him as a wedding present.”

“And later she gave it to you.”

Kíli nodded. “It’s why Uncle took me on in the first place.”

Bilbo tilted her head. “How do you mean?”

“It’s a long story,” Kíli said, then caught her eye and grinned. “And I supposed I’ve got time for it, don’t I?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Bilbo said.

“Mind? It’s not often I get to tell this story, not the least to a pretty lady sitting at my bedside.” Kíli sat up a bit more in his bed, taking some time to adjust the pillow behind him. Bilbo did not offer to help, for it seemed to her that he was gathering his wits — or possibly his courage.

At last he settled back. “My father was an officer in the Navy. Served with Uncle on the same ship, the HMS _Khazad-dûm_. There was a battle with some French pirates, out in the middle of the Atlantic. Da died. I was… four? I think? All I remember is people crying, and black cloths over all the mirrors. We didn’t see Uncle Thorin for a few years after that — I found out later Mamma and he had some sort of fight. Never really knew what it was about, but he was on the other side of the world until I was about eight or so. We lived in Southampton and every first of the month Fíli and I would run to the Admiral’s Court to see the naval postings. There was never any news.

“But then he came back and got his captaincy and Fíli said he wanted to take a berth with him, and Mamma didn’t speak a word against it. I thought she’d fight tooth and nail but all she said was, ‘Take care and come home.’ And the night before Fíli was set to leave, she gave me Da’s old snuffbox. I think she wanted me to have something, since Fíli was going away. But me and Fíli already had it all worked out.

“Fíli snuck me aboard and I hid in an apple barrel until we were out to sea. It was awful — you’d think it’d be nice, but after a while the smell gets to you. To this day, I can’t stand‘em. Fíli dug me out once we were out of the harbour; it was the first time I’d ever been on deck on a ship at full sail. I felt… I can’t explain it.” Kíli smiled at his past self. “It was a stupid plan, really. I thought I’d just blend in with everybody else. A frigate’s a crowded place, a hundred men all scurrying about. Besides which, Uncle had only ever seen me in a dress and ringlets and things — Fíli had chopped off all my hair with a knife the night before and I was wearing some of his old clothes. We thought my disguise was perfect. But Uncle found me straight away. He said I was a damn fool and it’d serve me right to get washed overboard in the next storm. He even locked us both in the brig for a night. I’ve never seen him so angry. I thought he was going to turn the ship ‘round or cast me out in a dinghy to find my own way back ashore.”

Bilbo was aghast. “You were just a child! How could he be so unkind as to lock you up? And you were his niece — _nephew_ ,” she corrected herself, torn between outrage at Thorin for his cruelty and mortification over her own error.

Kíli laughed at her expression. “I yelled at him a fair bit, too, the next morning. Threw the snuff box at his face and told him he’d probably let me die the same way he let my father die. I think that’s what shook him. He let us out and told Fíli, ‘Keep an eye on your little brother. If he goes overboard, you dive in after him. And then, God help me, I’ll have to dive after the pair of you.’”

“I take it you never went overboard.”

“To be fair, neither did they — but if they did, I’d dive after them. That’s what this silly old thing is,” he said, gesturing to the snuffbox still in her hand. “It’s a promise. Take care of the family, and come home.”

“ _That’s_ why you’re here,” Bilbo realised. “Out of loyalty.”

He sighed, but did not answer. He looked sick.

“You don’t want any part of this scheme, do you?” she pressed.

“If we do this,” he said, in a halting voice. “If Uncle becomes a baron — everything will change. I’ll have to choose: family or the sea. It’s always been both together, until now. But even if I go back, it’ll be different — a different captain, a different crew. It won’t be the same, you understand?”

She watched him for a moment. At last she said, “I will not speak of this to anyone. You have my word.”

The lines of strain on Kíli’s face, which Bilbo had previously ascribed to the pain of his shoulder and ankle, eased; he was quick to smile roguishly at her and say, “Of course, I’d expect no less from a woman of the cloth. I’m sure you keep any number of secrets buttoned under your bonnet.”

“Naturally,” she replied. “That is my duty. And to tell the truth, Mr. Kíli, yours is _hardly_ the most scandalous.”

While listening to her, Kíli smiled, but that last remark seemed to sting at him. “What?” he protested. “I ought to challenge you for such an insult. What could be more scandalous?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said, soberly. “I could disclose confessions that would make your hair turn white.”

This seemed to outrage him further. “I thought the country was a sedate and boring desolation, but the way you talk there’s intrigue on every corner. It’s downright shocking.” He turned serious once more. “And — don’t tell Uncle, will you? About what I said.” 

“No,” she agreed, “But what of the others? Do they share your feelings, or his?”

“Oh, they’re all bent on revenge,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I think they’d follow Thorin to Hell if he promised them satisfaction.”

“‘Satisfaction’?” Bilbo echoed. “What satisfaction could they want?”

But Kíli had evidently just heard what his own mouth had uttered, and was busy clapping his good hand over his mouth. “On second thought,” he said, slightly muffled, “Perhaps it’s best if we talked later.”

“ _Kíli_.”

“No, truly, I am feeling very faint and sick and… things,” he said. “I’m in an awful state. Not at all fit for company. You should go.”

Pursing her lips, Bilbo rose. “I hope you don’t suppose that you have escaped me for long, Lieutenant,” she said warningly as she replaced the chair at the desk. “We’ll have ample opportunity to discuss what you meant _at length_ another time.”

“I’m going to be sick then, too,” he promised her earnestly, just as the door burst open and Fíli tumbled through it.

“Ah, I see the cavalry has arrived,” Bilbo observed, and turned back to give Kíli a narrow look. “And we _shall_ talk later.”

“Miss Baggins, if I could request a private audience with Kíli,” Fíli said, or more accurately panted, “I would be most obliged.”

Kíli, for his part, was gaping at his brother. “Did you _run_?”

“Just a bit,” Fíli said, sounding uncharacteristically defensive. “Taking in the air, and things.”

Kíli tried to sit up. “Ow — damn — you thought I couldn’t be trusted not to keep my mouth shut!”

Fíli was a man caught between torments. “I — Miss Baggins,” he pleaded. “My uncle also requested the honour of your presence down in the parlour.”

“Yes, I thought he might have done something of the sort,” Bilbo said, and shut the door behind her just as the brothers began a rather spirited exchange of ideas over which one of them was the bigger addle-pated slow-top. 

In the parlour, Captain Oakenshield seemed to have recovered his breath, though the colour was high in his cheeks. “I did not suppose you would go so far as to interrogate my nephew while under the influence of spirits,” he said abruptly. “But I had hoped for that consideration, at least.”

“Interrogate — _consideration_?” she repeated, outraged. She had not been in the room for five seconds, and already he had set her back up. “I spoke to him because he asked me to!”

“And what did you speak of, precisely?” demanded the Captain, coming toward her.

She did not back away, but held her hands behind her back. “That is not your concern, Captain, nor is it your business.”

“It is every inch my business, Miss Baggins, and so I shall repeat the question. What did he tell you?”

“He told me things spoken in confidence—“

The captain made a dismissive noise. “You are no priest,” he said, contemptuously, “There is no seal of confession for you to hide behind—“

“I would not hide from _you_ for anything in the world,” she promised him, glaring up at him. “And the confidence I speak of is the confidence one soul may ask of another, and only _I_ can decide what I shall tell you and what I shall not. _I_ ,” she reminded him, “Am not a member of your Company to be ordered about like a hireling.”

“ _He_ is,” snapped the captain. “He is a lieutenant under my command—“

“He is your sister’s son!” Bilbo cried. “Surely you could call upon that bond first, unless you find him so distasteful that you would—“

“How _dare_ _you_ , madam?” Captain Oakenshield roared.

“I dare because I do not _know_! There are so many secrets here that I am quite blindfolded in all my interactions with the _line of Durin,”_ she said, spitting out the name, for it seemed to leave a bitter taste in her mouth. “You claimed that you trusted me more than most — but I can see I am not the only accomplished actor in this farce of ours.”

He had grown quite pale with rage, and it was through clenched teeth that he ground out, “For the last time, Miss Baggins, what did that damn fool tell you of our plans?”

The shock of it was as chilling as a bucket of water thrown over her. “Your _plans_?” she said, dumbfounded. “ _That_ was what your question was about?”

She watched the realisation dawn on his face, followed by an emotion she could not place, something almost like regret. She thought for one mad instant that he might apologise, or explain — but instead he said, “Yes, it was. And you have yet to answer.”

Her right hand, made like her left into a fist, was holding something; she still had Kíli’s snuff-box. Taking a deep breath, she set it down on an end-table and stepped back, toward the door. “We did not talk about your precious plans,” she told him. “We talked about _him_. So you can rest assured, it was entirely unimportant to you. Good day, Captain Oakenshield.”

***

Bilbo could not distinctly recall any aspect of the walk back into Laketown; only at the town square did she become aware once more of her surroundings and stop for a moment. Her heart was still beating furiously and she felt almost light-headed with anger. She wanted to scream at someone, she wanted to mash something into an unrecognisable paste.

“I am baking you some bread,” she announced to Gandalf as she marched past his astonished housekeeper and into his living room. “And you are going to sit quietly and say only, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Bilbo,’ and ‘You’re right, Bilbo,’ for the next hour. Is that understood?”

Gandalf, who had been reading and puffing away on his wretched pipe, looked up at her bemusedly. “Mrs. Bree, do we have sufficient flour for this undertaking?” he called.

His housekeeper, still standing in the hallway, called back, “Not for a proper set-down, Mr. Gandalf. I’ll go and fetch some from the market.”

A thought occurred to her, and she went to Gandalf’s desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Could you stop by the Vicarage as well, Mrs. Bree?” she asked, writing down a quick note, “And give this to the Gamgees? They may be concerned as to my whereabouts, and I will ask Mrs. Gamgee to provide you with a pound or so of flour.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Bree said, cheerful.

“Most obliged,” Gandalf told her, and as she left he put a marker carefully in his book. “Now, what’s this baking about?”

“Your dear friend the captain is a selfish, self-important, unfeeling boor whom I wouldn’t trust with the running of an apple orchard, never mind Erebor Estate.”

Gandalf stood up slowly, taking another draw from his pipe. He looked very serious. “What kind of bread?” he asked.

“‘I’m terribly sorry, Bilbo’ and ‘You’re right, Bilbo,’” she reminded him, setting off for the kitchen.

She did not expect him to obey, and indeed he did not; no sooner had she begun her story than he was interrupting. “A young lady in a phaeton? Was the barouche done up in gold and scarlet?”

“I would have described it as yellow and red, but yes,” she said. She was already regretting her decision to come here; Gandalf had never been good at giving counsel when she was most in need of it, though he often advised her when he had no business doing so. But she was already elbow-deep in sourdough bread and still far too angry to risk going home — the Gamgees would believe her note telling them that nothing serious had happened, but she would never be able to escape their curiosity if she encountered them in her present high dugeon. 

“Most interesting,” Gandalf mused.

“Is it? And will _you_ tell me why, or am I once more to be left wondering?” She folded the dough over and gave it another good push. 

“You always were greedy,” was the astounding reply. “When you were a little girl you wanted more chocolates, more bedtime stories, more attention. You’ve changed, but not necessarily for the better — demanding more from the captain than he can give you will not endear either of you to each other.”

“What on earth would I want to endear myself to that lout?” Bilbo exclaimed. “His poor nephew is injured and all he can think about is this ridiculous, rabbit-headed scheme of his! And then when I ask the simplest questions everything is suddenly too secret for me to know — as if you did not all march into my house the very first night and announce everything.”

“Because I vouched for you,” Gandalf said, unperturbed by her railing. “I told Thorin in no uncertain terms that you would be the one to assist us, that everything would be done quickly and secretly, before the baron had returned. But you put rather a large stick through that spoke. I misjudged you.”

“Yes, I’ve changed, and not necessarily for the better,” Bilbo parroted back to him, still turning and kneading. She paused and wiped at her brow with the back of her hand. “This is not about my failure to do as I’m told, Gandalf. This is about risking the entire estate and town on the chance — the _chance_ , for I see it as no certainty — that Captain Oakenshield will be a better master than the one already established. I thought all he needed was some experience amongst the farmers and labourers, a chance to understand them as fellow human beings. I even believed he was learning. But after today, it’s clear that he’s no different than any other noble, seeing everyone around him as pieces to be moved about at his will.”

Gandalf did not reply for a moment. When he spoke again, he said only, “You are right, Bilbo.”

“Now you are mocking me,” she sighed.

“I am terribly sorry, Bilbo,” he replied, and chuckled as she fought not to smile. “But truly, I am. For I cannot give you the information you wish for — because I do not have it. I’m afraid I somewhat lost the good captain’s confidence when my plan failed at the starting-line; I know less of his current scheme than you, I would wager.”

“Yet you still think we should help them,” Bilbo said.

There was another long silence. “Would you like to know when _I_ first hatched a plan to have Smaug dislodged from that mountain?”

“When you met the captain, I’d suppose,” she said. “Did he come to you while you were in London last year? How did he know how to find you?”

“He didn’t, and he didn’t,” Gandalf said. “It was I who sought him — he was the whole reason I went to London in the first place. But I had been looking for him for many years before that.”

“Very well, when _did_ you begin this search?” Bilbo asked, wrapping the dough in a cloth to rest.

“The day after you and your mother left Laketown, that last summer you came here when you were a child,” Gandalf said. “The day after the Running, when I found you weeping on the Park lawn with a hunting rifle in your hands.”

Bilbo could find no answer to that right away. She stared at Gandalf.

“I care for the people here too,” he reminded her, gently. “I know that my methods often seem… eccentric to you. And certainly this game we are playing is a dangerous one. But Smaug has resisted every other means I have employed to pull him away from this place — and in truth, I would not wish for him to be inflicted on some other manor in some other county. But I swore to myself twenty-seven years ago that we would be rid of him one day. It’s just taken a bit longer than I had thought it would.”

“What are we to do?” she asked. Her voice sounded small and high and unfamiliar in her own ears.

Gandalf shook his head. “Trust that Thorin would not have done to you what Smaug did,” he said.

***

In the end, she took three freshly-baked loaves to Radagast’s house that evening for their weekly dinner, which meant that for dinner they had toasted bread with roasted garlic. Radagast was happy to see her (as he always was), but distracted by his worry over one of his hares that had caught cold.

Perhaps it was as well that his attention was divided (as it always was), for she knew herself to be indifferent company that evening; her thoughts were too much occupied with other matters to pay more than glancing attention to Radagast’s conversation. It was a relief when she finally made her way home, a chill in the air and the stars wheeling overhead, making mirrors of the puddles in the lane.

When she arrived, there was a letter waiting for her on her desk. This itself was unusual, for in the normal course of events the post was left in an untidy pile on the table in the hallway. But one look at the envelope brought understanding; no doubt Mrs. Gamgee had been in a dither over what to do with a missive from the baron himself, and had put it on her desk so that it would have pride of place. Bilbo lit a match to the lamp and searched for her letter-opener, finding it at last and setting it to the envelope.

Inside was an invitation.

 _Lord John of Erebor_  
 _Requests the Honour of_  
 _Rev. Bilbo Baggins’s_  
 _Company at dinner on the Second of April  
_ _At seven o’clock._

There was no mention of an RSVP, which did not surprise her — the baron was not a man who thought in terms of other people’s refusals. The invitation itself, however, was very surprising. She had dined with the baron frequently, but always his summons had been in the form of a servant presenting his compliments and an instruction to arrive at the appointed hour on the appointed evening. This was, to her knowledge, the first _request_ she had ever received from him.

It did not bode at all well.

***

On the appointed evening, well before the appointed hour, there was a knock on the door. Bilbo went downstairs to answer it herself, with her father’s old dressing gown over her clothes and still in her slippers, for Mrs. Gamgee had been released for the day. “Poor Roper will have to take me there and back again tonight in the carriage, so I am intruding upon your evening quite enough as it is,” she’d said firmly over Mrs. Gamgee’s protests.

“The least I can do is set your hair or help with the dress,” Mrs. Gamgee had said.

“The ‘dress’ is going to be my regular soutane with a new collar, and you’ve already pressed it beautifully,” Bilbo reminded her, all but pushing her out the door. “And we have both spent fruitless hours trying to set my hair — I shall manage without ragging.”

“Very well, Miss. Bid you good night,” Mrs. Gamgee had sighed, at last accepting defeat, and Bilbo had managed not to laugh. She rather suspected Mrs. Gamgee of wanting Bilbo to make a better show of herself, now that there were so many eligible young men in town. Just the other day, she had dropped large hints at the income that might be expected of a valiant captain during wartime. “And they’re away quite often, so you would have a husband that was not always underfoot.”

“A hearty recommendation to matrimony, Mrs. Gamgee,” Bilbo had replied. Captain Oakenshield had not come to the Vicarage since the accident, and although Mr. Bofur and several others in the Company had presented themselves for more riding lessons, she had not had a word from either the captain nor his nephews. Mrs. Gamgee was beginning to look accusing. Bilbo wondered if Roper and his wife ever discussed her marriage prospects; it seemed clear that they had different aims for her domestic arrangements, though perhaps this caused no more strife than friends who bet on horses at the races.

The knocking persisted even while Bilbo drew back the locks, and by the time she answered the door she was quite sure of who was on the other side. Sure enough, Gandalf greeted her with, “Well, you look positively dreadful in _that_.”

“I’m devastated to hear you say so. Please, come in.”

“Only for a moment — I came by to convey you in the coach, but if you’re not even ready—“

“I’ve only to put my shoes on,” Bilbo said, “Which I can do while you go down to Vicarage Farm and tell Roper he need not take me up, after all. You might have told me you were going to make this very handsome offer.”

“I assumed you would set your mind to walking the entire four miles, and either I would find you still here and fawningly grateful, or already on the road requiring only that I slow down and haul you inside,” Gandalf said, traipsing through the house toward the back without taking off his cloak. “Make haste, child. I would like to arrive on schedule.”

Bilbo shook her head, but went back to her chambers and exchanged her slippers for her Sunday shoes and folding her dressing gown over the back of her chair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity: her hair, naturally predisposed to tight curls rather than the ringlets that society beauties spent hours achieving, was swept back into a rather elegant chignon. From the vanity drawer she drew out her mother’s favourite necklace, made of Spanish silver and given to her by Bilbo’s father on their wedding day. It twinkled in the candlelight, and she touched it carefully, arranging it just so over her collar. Despite her soutane, which was identical to two others in her closet and the closest thing female vicars had to a cassock, she looked quite different to her everyday self.

Which made it all the more disappointing when she descended once more to meet Gandalf’s disapproving tut. “Not even a _little_ décolletage, Bilbo? Really.”

“I cannot understand on what grounds you can complain, since as far as I can tell, your frock is every bit as high-collared as mine,” she pointed out as he helped her with her cloak.

“Well, I am so much less charmingly endowed,” Gandalf said, and ushered her out the door.

“But in all seriousness,” she said to him him as she made her way down the path toward the gate, beyond which Gandalf’s coach was waiting with his four greys in harness, “I am glad you came. I suppose I should have guessed that you would be invited — though I do not know who else may have been.”

“Oh, we shall find out soon enough,” Gandalf said, with such a studied air of disinterest that it immediately put Bilbo on guard.

Upon entering the coach, her suspicions were confirmed: Fíli and his uncle sat facing the back, one with a look of apprehension, the other with a look of extreme disgruntlement. It was only Gandalf’s presence immediately behind her that prevented Bilbo from balking; as it was, she took Gandalf’s assisting hand into the coach and pinched him hard on the wrist. She settled herself in her seat directly opposite Captain Oakenshield, who seemed determined to stare a hole through the window.

“How lovely to see you, Miss Baggins,” Fíli said, a bit too quickly.

“Likewise,” Bilbo replied as Gandalf climbed in beside her and the coach began to move. "I take it Kili is improving?"

"Oh, yes, though not enough to attend this evening," Fili replied, looking relieved. "Trouble is that he wrenched his left shoulder and his right leg, so he can’t use a crutch _or_ a cane. He's not been happy, I can tell you.”

Bilbo smiled at that, but then turned her gaze to the other two gentlemen in the coach, neither of whom would meet her eyes. “So,” she said briskly, “Is it too late to dissuade you from any half-cocked scheme you might have? I would rather not end the evening with a visit from the constabulary.”

Captain Oakenshield’s nostrils flared, but he made no reply. Gandalf, however, said, “Half-cocked scheme? Goodness me.”

“It doesn’t really seem sporting,” Fíli said, “Rummaging through a man’s house while he’s feeding you dinner.”

“So I can have your word that none of you will try anything… outrageous, for lack of a better term,” she concluded.

Fíli nodded; his uncle did not reply. Gandalf said, “Oh, indeed; just a friendly gathering, I should think. A chance to meet new people — have you discovered the identities of the baron’s visitors?”

He addressed this question to Bilbo, who shook her head. “They have not stirred out of the house, so far as I know. The young lady that I we met the other day never gave her name.”

“Curious city manners,” Gandalf observed.

The coach had arrived at the front doors to the manse, and a footman came to let down the stair. Gandalf and Fíli exited first, but Bilbo put her hand out as the captain made to get out. “ _You_ did not give me your word,” she said. “And I would very much like it.”

Captain Oakenshield gaped at her, a singularly unattractive look. “You expect me to attempt a burglary tonight?” he demanded.

“I only know that neither of us have lived up to the other’s expectations," she said.

She expected another outburst, or perhaps yet more chilly silence. But his shoulders sagged, as though she had hit some vital organ. “I would argue that at another time,” he said. “But if it raises me in your estimation, I will promise you. Neither I nor Fíli will make an attempt to recover the item we seek. I cannot vouch for Gandalf,” he added, with something of his familiar, wry manner.

“There are few who can,” Bilbo said, and when he alighted from the coach he turned back to hand her out. It was not a peace, nor even a truce; she could still feel a disquiet in her heart when she thought of their argument the other day. But she took his proffered arm and did not find it unpleasant to walk beside him.

***

As prompt as Gandalf had wished to be, they were the last to arrive, according to Smaug’s unctuous butler Mr. Alfrid, who took their coats and hats. “His Lordship’s particular guests have been downstairs for almost ten minutes, waiting for you,” he sniffed.

“Thank you, Mr. Alfrid, for your facility with timekeeping,” Gandalf said.

Deeply offended by what he sensed (quite correctly) was a jibe at him, Mr. Alfrid lead them to the parlour and flung open the doors. “Miss Baggins, Captain Oakenshield, Mr. Eredson, and Mr. Gandalf,” he announced, before eeling out of their path. Gandalf, who had offered Bilbo his arm as they went in, squeezed her hand very slightly between his elbow and his side. She wondered if he meant to offer comfort or seek it, but she squeezed his arm in return and felt heartened.

Her eye was first caught by the familiar; Bard, whom she had expected, and Sigrid, whom she had not. Speaking with her, or at least standing near her, was an exceedingly handsome young man with bright blue eyes and a slightly constipated expression. As Smaug excused himself from a conversation with Bard and came toward them, Bilbo noted two more people seated near the fireplace — or rather one seated in an armchair, the other sprawled on a sofa, with an arm flung over his eyes. The seated figure was leaning toward the other, but at the announcements looked round; Bilbo recognised Kíli’s marvellous young lady.

“What a merry conspiracy, rector,” Smaug said with a smile. “I sent my own carriage down to the Vicarage not ten minutes ago to fetch my dear vicar, but you have snatched my prize for yourself. And two others, I see.”

“Oh, I detest riding alone,” Gandalf replied affably, “The Abbey is such a trifling distance from my house, it seemed foolish to take out two coaches when one would suit us.”

“All becomes clear,” said Smaug. “But it does not explain how my vicar came to be one of your party.”

“That was Captain Oakenshield’s idea,” said Gandalf, beaming with a paternal air of approval. “He was quite adamant that we stop at the Vicarage to offer to bear her company.”

Bilbo glanced up at Captain Oakenshield, who was doing his best to resemble a man caught in an act of chivalry rather than a man caught flat-footed. If the stakes were not quite so high, she might have laughed; as it was, she tried to sound admiring as she said, “It was _very_ kind of him.”

“Such a surfeit of noble sentiment tonight,” Smaug remarked. “But please, allow me to make introductions.”

The young man and the young lady both came forward to be presented; the figure on the sofa had yet to stir, but Smaug seemed unperturbed by this. Instead he said, “The Viscount Legolas of Greenwood and Lady Tauriel Silme, son and ward of Lord Thranduil,” and this he drawled somewhat, with a pointed look at the recumbent figure, “Earl of Mirkwood.”

“Yes, yes,” the figure replied, and at last drew his arm from his face. “I am of course delighted to meet even more of my friend’s charming country neighbours—“ but as he stood up to make a proper leg, he stopped dead. “ _You_ ,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “ _You_ are very familiar.”

He was speaking to Captain Oakenshield, to the surprise of all assembled. The captain, for his part, did not seem surprised: in fact, he looked absolutely murderous. “My lord," he said, with the most begrudging bow Bilbo had ever seen.

“I did not think the two of you would be acquainted,” said Smaug. He sounded amused, but Bilbo moved closer to Gandalf with some vague notion of taking cover.

“Nor should you,” Lord Thranduil said, absently. “As for myself, I confess I have not quite placed him. But at any rate, he seems enough acquainted with _me_ to dislike me prodigiously, which is excellent. Please, Smaug, do continue with your introductions — I see any number of interesting faces, which I was not expecting upon venturing into this wilderness.”

Smaug shook his head, looking oddly fond as he said, “One day, my lord, I’m going to wring your neck for your impertinence.”

“One day, my lord, I’m going to throw you off a cliff for yours,” came the ready reply. “Now introduce us, before your dear country brethren are quite convinced of the barbarity of City-bred gentry.”

Introductions were made in short order, and the party broke into sociable groups. Some more sociable than others — Lord Thranduil claimed a word with Captain Oakenshield, who looked as though he would very much like to refuse. Bilbo herself was claimed by Sigrid, who was clutching her wine glass so tightly Bilbo feared it might shatter at any moment. “Thank goodness you’ve come,” Sigrid said in an urgent undertone. “The baron is very polite, but his guests are terrifying. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”

Bilbo received a glass from one of the footmen. “Thank you, Charles. And yes, Lady Tauriel is quite lovely.” It was true — as the young lady moved to speak to Bard, she seemed to drift across the ground rather than tread upon it. Bilbo had never fallen prey to the childish temptation to compare her beauty with others, but she could not help but admire someone who had been born with all the perfections of good breeding and accomplished manners.

“Oh, not her — well, no, she is very pretty,” Sigrid amended immediately. “But the _viscount_. Have you ever seen anyone with eyes so blue?”

“I… have not,” Bilbo was forced to admit.

“He looks like some sort of poet.”

This observation, unlike the one previous, was said with such heavy disapproval that Bilbo nearly choked on her wine. “Are poets to be condemned, my dear?” she asked.

“No, but they’re such ridiculous people. I’ve read that poem about the sailor and the albatross three times now and I _still_ can’t understand what the fuss is about. And then Father told me to go speak to him! I thought he might spout rhymes at me. Your arrival was very fortunate.”

Bilbo considered the viscount thoughtfully. “Perhaps not a poet,” she said. “I do not think that is the face of someone given to great flights of fancy, handsome though it is. A poet’s patron?”

Sigrid giggled just as Fíli joined them, looking only slightly less nervous than Sigrid. “What’s the joke?” he asked. “I beg you to tell me — people like that make me feel like I’ve got dirt under my fingernails, even when I haven’t, and I could do with a laugh.”

“They _are_ rather intimidating,” Bilbo said, watching Captain Oakenshield out of the corner of her eye. He was still in conversation with Lord Thranduil. He caught her gaze and bowed minutely. Lord Thranduil noticed, however, and turned a speculative eye upon her for a moment before returning his attention to Captain Oakenshield.

“Intimidating?” Fíli cried. “I tried to thank Lady Tauriel for her services the other day, and she said, ‘pray, don’t mention it. I’ve already forgotten all about it.’” His outraged tone conveyed what he thought of such a response. “They’re all terrifying. And far too good-looking.”

“See?” said Sigrid. “Mr. Eredson agrees with me.”

“I hardly think you are in a position to judge,” Fíli replied, “Since you are every bit as lovely.”

Praying for the Lord to deliver her from the flirtations of children, Bilbo excused herself. She went to talk to Lord Legolas, who was the subject of so much conversation and yet stood by himself near the pianoforte. “I hope your journey to Laketown was pleasant,” she said, after making her bow. “I know that late March, whatever the calendar may claim, still feels like winter when one is on the road.”

“Yes — I mean, no — it was quite pleasant.” She examined him carefully as he spoke; she did not find his eyes quite as blue as Sigrid did. Perhaps it was because they seemed so very unhappy. “My father is very particular about his travel arrangements,” he added.

“And so you were assured of a pleasant journey,” she concluded.

He smiled, a brief thing that Bilbo nevertheless suspected was the equivalent to laughter in this solemn young man. “Indeed,” he said.

“I understand your father’s ward rode into town driving her own phaeton,” Bilbo said carefully. “She must have made excellent time. Did she arrive at Erebor before you and your father?”

“You would _think_ so,” Lord Legolas said, with the disapproving affection of an elder brother, “But we were left waiting upon her for more than an hour, and when she at last showed up she said simply that she’d been delayed. I’d suspect her of overturning if she were not so fine a horsewoman. More likely she stopped because of that—”

“Are you singing my praises?” Lady Tauriel said, joining their conversation. She wore a smile on her face, but her eyes flickered to Bilbo’s for a moment, as if in warning.

“I was just remarking to my lord Legolas that it is quite encouraging to see a young lady driving the latest high-flyers off their own estates,” Bilbo said, with a quelling look of her own. “Any number of girls — indeed, people of all walks of life — must have seen your arrival in Laketown, and remarked upon it.”

“Indeed, since there is so little else to talk about,” Lady Tauriel replied. “But excuse me, Legolas — I wished to speak to Miss Baggins about her lovely…”

Bilbo waited, equal parts amused and perplexed, as Lady Tauriel tried to search for an article of her clothing that a debutante might covet.

“Collar,” she settled on.

Legolas bowed and removed himself, once more wandering the room with a faintly lost expression. “Are you truly interested in my fichu? Because I can give you the direction of my haberdasher.”

Lady Tauriel looked horrified for a moment. “No,” she said, with more force than was perhaps discreet. She seemed to recollect herself and blushed. “That is, it’s quite pretty, but I wished to speak with you on another matter.”

“What is it you wish to speak of?”

“I think you can guess.”

“I can the subject,” admitted Bilbo, “But not the reason. Why have you not mentioned your act of heroism to your guardian and his son? Surely there can be no concern that it was unladylike behaviour, for you had far too assured a manner when assisting my friend to have been inexperienced with such matters. And if that is indeed the case, then would your guardian not know of it already?”

Lady Tauriel turned her wineglass in her hands. “I must trespass on your kindness and ask that you not press for a reason,” she said at last.

Bilbo considered her for a moment. This young woman had driven clear across the country in a gentleman’s dresscoat and boots, had set the shoulder of a strange man, had proved herself clear-headed and capable beyond the gentle expectations of her sex and class. And yet now she seemed an altered creature, nervous and halting. Bilbo did not have the heart to refuse her.

“I cannot vouch for the captain and his nephew,” she said. “Nor would I dream of vouching for Mr. Kíli himself. But we are all in your debt and I shall endeavour to remind them of that.”

“Mr. — Kíli?” Lady Tauriel asked. “Is that his name? Is he well?”

“Tolerably, though he could not attend this gathering tonight,” Bilbo said. “I rather think he would be pleased to receive a visit in a few days, however.”

Lady Tauriel opened her mouth to reply, before her eyes widened slightly at someone behind Bilbo. She turned and faced Smaug. His expression was calculated to show pleasure, but his eyes were sharp. 

“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said.

Bilbo managed to smile. “Not at all, Lord John,” she said. “I have not yet had the opportunity to thank you for playing host to such a lovely gathering.”

“You make it lovelier, vicar,” he replied. “And in fact, it was on party business that I wished to speak — if you would excuse us,” he added to Lady Tauriel.

“Of course,” she said, leaving Bilbo alone with the baron.

“I could not help but notice your felicity with my guests this evening,” Smaug said. “You are so very adept at putting everyone at their ease.”

“It is a skill most clergy learn,” she demurred.

“In _you_ , I think, it is an innate gift. Which is why I thought to come to you and ask you for a favour. I am, of course, without a mistress of this house to act as the hostess — there is, therefore, no one to bring in Lord Thranduil to dinner. But as you and I are such very old friends, I wondered if you would be so good as sit at first place tonight and ensure that the earl is made comfortable.”

Bilbo took a sip of her wine. It was hardly a shocking request, or even an impudent one; she had often acted as hostess to Gandalf’s parties and once or twice to Bard’s, before Sigrid had come of sufficient age to be the mistress of her father’s house. As the eldest woman and one first in consequence, if not in rank, it seemed a logical choice. Considering her connection to the estate and to the baron, indeed, he could hardly have asked anyone else.

Yet she knew with a dreadful certainty that his motivations were far removed from logic and consideration. A movement caught her eye; she glanced up and saw Captain Oakenshield, no longer trapped with Lord Thranduil but speaking with Gandalf and watching her. This time he did not bow.

“Of course,” Smaug added, “This means that your good friend the captain will not be able to take you in — but I’m sure I can arrange for him to be seated on your left.”

“That is very kind,” Bilbo said, “Though I would not want to put your table out of balance.”

“Then you will indulge this request? I am so very glad. You are, as ever, the picture of accommodation.”

He excused himself and went to speak to Mr. Alfrid, standing at the doorway. Bilbo drank down the rest of her glass, and another one appeared before her. She looked up to see that its bearer was her escort into dinner, Lord Thranduil. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said. “Anyone that is under the thumb of my dear friend the baron must seek fortification at every turn.”

“Under the thumb?” she asked as she took the glass.

“An excellent response,” the earl said, approving. “Simply a repetition of what I’ve said — no agreement whatsoever, and all in the most polite tone, with just a hint of surprise. How long have you been a vicar?”

“How long have you been an earl?” she asked, remembering Smaug’s compliments. She apparently had a reputation for putting people at their ease; but it was difficult to imagine the earl being any more at ease than he was already.

As if to prove her right, he laughed. “I did not at all expect to enjoy myself out here in the savage north,” he confided. “But already I am excessively entertained. It’s rare that I am invited to a party that _no one_ wants to attend; everyone here is so clearly desperate to be elsewhere.”

“Including yourself, my lord?”

“I am eternally desperate to be elsewhere, Miss Baggins, that is the one constant of my life. But at the moment I find myself content to remain.”

“That sounds as though it could be praise; but I think I would have to know you better, my lord, before making a definitive judgment.”

“Oh, it is,” Lord Thranduil replied as the dinner bell sounded.

The party arranged themselves in short order. Smaug offered his arm to Lady Tauriel and Lord Thranduil brought Bilbo directly behind them. Captain Oakenshield, after a moment’s hesitation, bowed to Sigrid, who placed her hand gingerly on his forearm as though it might burn her. The rest of the gentlemen arrayed themselves accordingly; as Fili passed Bilbo to stand at the end of the procession, he winked broadly at her.

“For such recent arrivals,” Lord Thranduil said, “Those sailors seem on remarkably familiar terms with you.”

“Since that did not seem to be a question, I assume that it requires no answer,” she replied, keenly aware of Captain Oakenshield standing behind her.

“This evening is already the most enjoyable in recent memory,” the earl said as they proceeded out of the parlour. “But perhaps I speak out of envy — I would like nothing better than to be on such familiar terms with so agreeable a lady as yourself.”

“I am a vicar, not a lady,” she told him. “And as for familiarity—“

“Whatever you are about to say will wound me,” Lord Thranduil interrupted, “And therefore I refuse to hear it. But I _will_ hear any suggestions you might have as to how to improve our acquaintance as rapidly as possible. Afew compliments on your attire? But you are dressed so drably. Perhaps I could compliment your necklace — it is decidedly unobjectionable, and looks very well on you.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that my colouring favours silver,” Bilbo said, and they went in to dinner.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Bilbo noted with some relief that Sigrid had a place securely between Captain Oakenshield and Fíli, with her father seated directly across. She would be sure of some diversion — if not from the captain, then certainly from the lieutenant — without being exposed to anything too alarming in the form of Lord Thranduil’s conversation or Lord Smaug’s attention. Sigrid did seem a touch out of sorts over being so far from Legolas, but to Bilbo’s mind that was all to the good.

The rest of the table was not so congenially situated — though Bilbo, taking her place at the first place, had no doubt that it was all exactly to Smaug’s liking. Lord Thranduil, as the gentleman of honour, was to her right; beside him sat Bard, then Legolas, then Gandalf. Along the left of the table sat Lady Tauriel as the lady of honour, then Fíli, then Sigrid, then Captain Oakenshield: with the result that Bilbo was seated between the two gentlemen whose conversation would be most awkward, and her only allies too far away to assist her. Smaug had arranged it all masterfully. The first course had not yet been served before Lord Thranduil, tiring of Bilbo’s prattle about her plans for improvements to the church’s apse, turned his attention back to Captain Oakenshield. 

“Marseilles?” he asked.

Captain Oakenshield, holding his knife and fork in a white-knuckled grip, seemed to consider the option of lunging across the table with them. Bilbo watched him carefully under her lashes, but having controlled himself, the captain merely replied, “No, my lord,” and resumed his meal.

This seemed to pique the earl, and he flung himself back in his chair in high dudgeon. “Really, this is most provoking,” he protested, then blinked appealing eyes at Bilbo. “Cannot _you_ persuade him, Miss Baggins?”

Aware that the other conversations around the table had faded, Bilbo cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I cannot summon my powers of persuasion without knowing first what it is I am persuading the captain to do.”

“You are persuading the captain to tell me where it is we met before, of course,” said Lord Thranduil, “For he has been teasing me all evening.”

The expression on Captain Oakenshield’s face indicated that he had not had the least intention of teasing. “I do not think it is my place to ask Captain Oakenshield to divulge more than he wishes to,” Bilbo said.

“Who better to ask him?” asked Smaug from the foot of the table. “For I am sure the captain, like every gentleman here, is eager to be at your service. You have only to command, vicar — surely you can see what my guest is suffering at this suspense?”

“Truly, the agony is unbearable,” Lord Thranduil assured her.

“I—“ Bilbo looked at Captain Oakenshield, unsure of how best to navigate between this Scylla and Charybdis. She was still angry at him, still disgusted by his abominable lack of consideration — but in that moment she felt only a pang of regret, that their charade was not further along and that she could not reach out for the comfort of his hand across the expanse of linen.

But to her surprise, it was Captain Oakenshield who reached out and rested his fingertips near the stem of her wineglass as he said, “I will not force Miss Baggins to command me, my lord. You and I met on the _HMS Steadfast_ , in the summer of 1790.”

Bilbo watched Lord Thranduil to see how this information might land. That it did land was certain; the earl’s bad temper dissolved almost instantly. “ _Ah_ ,” he said, a long exhalation of recognition. “I remember _now_.”

“Yes,” said the captain, “I thought you might.”

“Is there something to remember?” asked Bard, taking a drink. Bilbo wished she were close enough to prod his ankle with her boot.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” replied Lord Thranduil. “A good deal to remember. That was the summer I spent making a very long, _extremely_ tedious crossing to the American colonies. Midshipman Oakenshield here did his best to make it… somewhat less tedious.”

Bilbo, aged five-and-thirty, with a good understanding of the world, had no doubt whatsoever the meaning behind _that_ , and took care not to cough up her mouthful of salad. She could see that the news had penetrated the understanding of a good number of the other guests — though not, happily, either Fíli or Sigrid, who were still engaged in their own conversation and had not yet noticed the topic holding the rest of the table hostage.

“Father,” said Lord Legolas, with the flat tone of someone who knows their task to be hopeless. “Perhaps you and the captain can reminisce another time?”

“What better time than this?” Lord Thranduil asked, pouring himself some wine. “Oh — forgive my manners, Miss Baggins, as I’m sure you forgive so many things. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you,” she said, waving away the decanter. “I — I did not know you had travelled to America, my lord. How did you find it?”

“Unbearably backward, but diverting enough,” he answered. “It will not at all surprise you — or it would not surprise you if we were better acquainted — to learn that I married _very_ imprudently while somewhere in the wilds of Western Virginia.”

“Surely not that imprudently,” said Bard, winking at Bilbo. “Unless it was to cure a broken heart?”

Captain Oakenshield coughed into his wineglass, prompting Sigrid at last to look around. Lord Thranduil, for his part, seemed vastly amused and not at all concerned that he now had the attention of the younger members of the dinner party.

“Oh, on the contrary — and I hope the captain will not forgive my saying so, since it has been a quarter-century — but I could not have been happier to be off that accursed boat. Seeing the same thing, _doing_ the same thing, for weeks and months on end…” He gave a shudder. “I cannot recommend it.”

“And yet you entered into the holy state of matrimony shortly after,” Bard prompted. Bilbo took a bite of her salad and eyed a tomato wedge thoughtfully; perhaps she could hurl it at his head to shut him up.

“I did say ‘imprudently,’” Lord Thranduil said. “Which reminds me — Legolas!” He leaned further back in his chair to address his son, who had been staring at the candelabra in the centre of the table with a resigned sort of dread for the past few minutes. “Did you not receive a letter from your dearest mama before we set off from London? I am sure I smelled that lilac perfume she drenches her envelopes in. Remarkable how it endures despite a crossing over the Atlantic.”

“She sent her regards, and hopes you are in good health,” Lord Legolas replied, still staring mournfully at the candlelight.

“These colonial ladies have quite an unfair reputation for incivility, I’ve found,” Lord Thranduil remarked. “In truth, they are _everything_ obliging.”

“Then she still lives in America?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh, naturally,” said Lord Thranduil. “She finds being Lady Mirkwood most enjoyable when not in the company of Lord Mirkwood, and truth to tell, I am of a similar mind. Besides, she provided me with both an heir and a steadying influence in my excellent son. The least I could do to repay her kindness was to leave her alone.”

This remark prompted some laughter from the table, but Bilbo watched the earl closely. He did not seem so very entertained by his own joke. “Perhaps the marriage was not so imprudent as you say, my lord,” she said, “If it has given you so much.”

“It is the nature of noblemen to always want more than they are given,” Lord Thranduil replied. “Is that not your experience?”

“I do not know a great many noblemen, my lord, and therefor could not answer definitively with the sample size at my disposal.”

Smaug, who had been neglecting his guests in favour of watching the entire exchange, now spoke. “Come, come, vicar. Surely you can make a conjecture, based on those few of noble blood of your acquaintance. Are we an covetous, grasping, insatiable lot? Always reaching out for more than we deserve?”

Bilbo did not dare look at Captain Oakenshield, and Gandalf was (very wisely) saying nothing at all. No help could come from either quarter, and Bard did not know the dangers; she could not rely on him for aid. She took a breath.

“Certainly that is a sin for any man, no matter his birth,” Sigrid piped up — Sigrid, who was terrified of talking above a whisper in front of others. And yet she was still speaking: “It would be as wrong for a pauper as for a king to desire more than he should have.”

She glanced at Fíli, who was looking exceedingly admiring, and then at the level of Sigrid’s wineglass, which was slightly lower than perhaps it should have been at this stage of the dinner. But she could not raise the spectre of Sigrid’s shyness now. “The consequences of avarice in someone who wields power are far greater,” she replied, trying to sound very much as she did during their lessons, to keep Sigrid from realising she had just uttered an opinion in front of other people. “Would you not say that those consequences would weigh more heavily on the sinner?”

“Perhaps they should, but his original misstep is still the same,” Sigrid replied.

Lord Thranduil was not in the least helpful. “What part should I take in this debate?” he asked Bilbo as the salads were cleared to make way for the fish. “I do not understand either one, of course, since they have to do with moral fortitude.”

“A thing you have been at pains to know nothing about,” Smaug said, to further laughter.

For a short while, Bilbo was half-convinced the evening would go off well; Sigrid (with some rather enthusiastic assistance from Lord Thranduil) and Bilbo (with no assistance whatsoever, and therefor at an advantage) argued the theological implications of greed without touching on any examples that might detonate the present company. Smaug turned to speak with Lady Tauriel and the other gentlemen talked amongst themselves. Only Captain Oakenshield remained silent, though given his position at the table it was not unduly provoking that he do so. The main course came and went without any more surprising revelations about anyone’s past, and Bilbo was, with the peculiar pride of an ersatz hostess, quite proud of the proceedings.

But Sigrid’s mention of a Greek fable proved to be their undoing; Lord Thranduil interjected, “Ah, the classics! I am quite amazed, Miss Baggins, that you have taught your pupil here about the Greeks and Romans. In London they would be considered quite scandalous and entirely unsuitable for a lady to read.”

“Life in the country is a bit closer to nature, my lord,” Bilbo replied. “Every able-bodied soul in the village helps with lambing season, for example. Ladies here are not sheltered from the realities of life.”

“All to the good,” Lord Thranduil approved. “And by all means, introduce them when they’re young, so it is not quite such a shock. I remember loaning my tome on classical poetry to _you_ , Captain Oakenshield, while we were all at sea. You were very much… overwhelmed, if I recall correctly.”

The captain’s knife bit too deeply into his mutton and scraped along the china with a loud screeching sound, silencing the table once again. As burying her face in her hands was out of the question, Bilbo simply remained as still as possible; but the captain seemed beyond embarrassment. “I’m surprised that you recalled anything whatsoever of that trip,” he told the earl icily, “Considering you could not remember either my name or my face.”

“Oh dear, you’re put out about it,” observed Lord Thranduil.

“Ah, the memory, such a fickle thing,” said Gandalf, pitching his voice to be heard by the entire table. “Why, just the other day, I lost my third pair of spectacles. Had to walk all the way over to the Vicarage to retrieve my spares, and what did I find but _four_ pair in Bilbo’s parlour.”

Lord Thranduil gestured expansively at Gandalf. “You see, Captain? Anyone might forget little details. And it is not as though you’ve been perched on my nose for the past twenty-five years. I’ve not seen you all grown up. The beard makes quite a difference, are you aware?”

“It has _not_ ,” said the captain, “Been twenty-five years.”

“Goodness gracious,” Gandalf muttered.

“Twenty-four, then,” Lord Thranduil allowed.

“We met again in the year ’01, after the ship where I served as first lieutenant saw action off of Gibraltar — my captain was awarded a commendation. You were in attendance. When I spoke to you, you did not remember me _then_ , either.”

Thranduil did not seem ashamed, or surprised — or discouraged. “A midshipman is rarely worth remembering, and a lieutenant barely more so. But I remember you _now_. After all, a _captain_ — that is worth something, wouldn't you agree, Miss Baggins?”

Bilbo, who had been engaged in watching this horrific conversation go on and on with no hope in sight, startled slightly at her name. “My profession compels me to find worth beyond a man's position, my lord.” She glanced at Captain Oakenshield, who was looking not at the earl, but at her. She placed her hand very near his, so that her fingers might touch the knob of his wrist where it was exposed by his shirtsleeve. “But whatever his position was at any time in his past, my lord, I am sure that Captain Oakenshield has always been worth a great deal.”

That remark seemed to amaze the captain more than the touch of her hand, and he blinked at her, a small smile appearing unwillingly at the corner of his mouth.

“You should have been a diplomat,” Thranduil laughed.

***

By the time Bilbo escaped to the drawing room with Sigrid and Tauriel, she felt a powerful headache forming behind her eyes. It was well-earned; she had spent the rest of dinner distracting Lord Thranduil from his campaign to torment Captain Oakenshield, and the earl had proved a formidable enemy. “And it’s only nine o’clock,” she noted as she sank down onto the nearest sofa.

“Is it really so late?” Sigrid asked, sitting beside her. “I cannot think where the time has gone.”

Tauriel, who was no more than four or five years older than Sigrid, smiled indulgently as she arranged herself on the opposite divan. “You enjoyed yourself, I take it?”

“Oh, yes. Everybody was very nice.”

“‘Nice’ is not an epithet I would ascribe to anyone present,” Bilbo said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “But I suppose the worst is over. Lady Tauriel, now that we are away from the gentlemen, I did mean to ask you something.”

“Did you?” Tauriel asked.

“Your attire when you first arrived — I confess, I do not keep up with the fashions from London, but I was greatly surprised by your coat and boots. It seemed a very practical outfit for so long a journey, but hardly one that I have seen a lady wear before. Are country fashions so very out of step with the civilised world?”

Tauriel gave serious consideration to the question, though Bilbo had meant it to be lighthearted, “To be fair, it is still very scandalous in London to go about in such clothing, but a few of the more daring ladies are risking the social repercussions.”

“Then it is not the mode in Town?” Bilbo asked.

“Not in the least,” Tauriel replied. “But I have a double advantage. I am an orphan, and what family I still have is not in a position to dictate how I may conduct myself. And I am Lord Thranduil’s ward; he is not a man anyone would wish to anger.”

“Does he ever get angry?” Sigrid asked, surprised. “I would think he would laugh at anyone who crossed him.”

“He does, Miss Bowman,” replied Tauriel, very solemn. “And then he crushes them into chalk dust.”

“ _Really_?” If Tauriel had meant to frighten Sigrid, she failed utterly; Sigrid looked wide-eyed with fascination. “What does he do? Has he ever fought a duel?”

“He’s fought two in the past year alone,” Tauriel confirmed, sending Sigrid into paroxysms of joy and demands to hear all the details. There were a great many details, and Tauriel seemed not in the least concerned with saving her guardian’s reputation - though as the tales progressed it became clear that Lord Thranduil had very little reputation to save at this juncture. In the midst of a recount of the earl’s recent public argument with his mistress and her husband (he had apparently been sleeping with both and had disclosed this fact to neither), the gentleman himself appeared, along with his host and the remaining guests.

Thranduil, who now was held in Sigrid’s estimation just shy of the Saviour, waved away the salutations of the ladies. “I have just had the most brilliant idea,” he said. “One day, perhaps a statue shall be erected in the town square in my honour.”

Bilbo examined the expressions of his compatriots; whatever the idea was, they were not likely to donate funds to build such a monument. “We are all agog to hear it,” she assured him. This was not at all truthful, for Captain Oakenshield, Bard, Legolas and Gandalf were still speaking amongst themselves. But Thranduil paid no heed to them, instead addressing his host, Fíli, and the ladies.

“A ball,” he announced. “A proper assembly hall dance, for I have been informed by Mr. Bowman that there _is_ an assembly hall, fallen into disrepair and probably stabling pigs or goats or those little lambs of yours at present, but I’m sure Smaug can have it cleared out in a few weeks.”

Bilbo looked at Smaug, who seemed all amiable goodwill. “A grand notion, indeed. And your host had no objection?”

“My dearest vicar, why ever should I object?” replied Smaug, sounded. “I wish nothing more than to oblige my guests.”

This may have been the case, but while Bilbo recalled several assembly balls held by Old Durin during the summers of her childhood, there had never been any assembly gathering, much less a ball, during Smaug’s tenure as baron. She had inquired into the possibility of holding one once, her first year as vicar. He had given her no reply but an unpleasant laugh.

“An actionable falsehood, my dear friend,” Thranduil said, “But that is of no account. Oblige me in this, and I shall never impugn the character of country folk again.”

“His lordship is _extremely_ fond of dancing,” Tauriel said, a note of reproof in her voice. “During the season of my coming-out, he danced with more people than I did.”

“And then you told people I had gout, and I’ve regretted being your guardian ever since,” Thranduil replied in an affectionate tone.

Tauriel, clearly used to such callous expressions of love, only shook her head at him. “I told people you had hurt your foot, which you had. It was _Lady Galadriel_ that told people you had gout.”

“Ah, Lady Galadriel,” said Thranduil, with equal affection in his voice, “May all her hair fall out. I seem doomed to forever have people set themselves against me through no fault of my own. But enough of remembering the past — and enough of planning the future, for I wish for some dancing _now._ If only I could locate our musician,” Lord Thranduil said, looking around the room until his eyes lighted on his son, “Ah! There you are, my dear boy. Come here.”

Legolas heaved a sigh as he excused himself from his conversation with Gandalf. “This is not your party, Father,” he pointed out, “And I very much doubt your host was prepared to have his guests do the Fitz Ugly in his drawing room this evening.”

“All the more reason to change the itinerary. I’m sure none of these people wish to _talk_ to each other a moment longer. You can thrill us all with your sonatas and arpeggios—“

“An arpeggio isn’t a type of song, Father—“

“No matter!” said the earl. “And I will ask the lovely Miss Baggins if I might have the first dance.”

“What?” Bilbo said, for the conversation had moved a bit beyond her; Sigrid and Fíli, under Lady Tauriel’s direction and Smaug’s watchful eye, had already moved some chairs out of the way, and Legolas was taking his seat before the pianoforte. “I — fear I am not the equal to your skill, my lord,” she protested as he held out his hand.

“Few are,” he said airily. “But you surely will accept my explanation that with so few ladies present, if _you_ were to refuse me, I would have no choice but to ask our dear friend the captain. And if I were to do _that_ , I would either be immediately killed — or worse, I would have to dance at the bottom of the set, and I detest any position that does not allow me to dance first.”

“I think you have asked quite enough of the captain this evening,” she replied, but accepted his hand and stood up. As she did she glanced over to where Captain Oakenshield stood with Bard; both gentlemen bowed to her, but while Bard’s expression was all amusement, Captain Oakenshield seemed to be holding onto his temper by the skin of his teeth. Thranduil saw her look, and smiled sunnily.

“Which is why I did not ask him.”

Bilbo took her place at the top of the set, next to Sigrid and Fíli. Tauriel and Gandalf stood at the bottom; when she lifted an eyebrow in Gandalf’s direction, he only bowed very slightly toward her. Legolas began to play.

“Is it not the custom during a dance to appear as if one is enjoying oneself?” Thranduil asked after the first turn. “I confess myself a novice to country society, but in Town, at least such a thunderous frown on a lady’s face is unusual.”

“There are many things here that are unusual, my lord,” said Bilbo. “For example, asking someone to dance when there is no dancing to be had is _most_ unusual.”

“There is certainly dancing to be had. We’re having it now.” Thranduil touched her hand briefly at the promenade, and released it. “But perhaps you mean it is unusual to arrange a dance at someone else’s party, merely for the sake of asking one lovely lady to partake.”

“I thought it was that you loved dancing, my lord,” Bilbo said. “That is what Tauriel said — if she had not, I might have thought you had asked me not because of my loveliness, but to see what reaction you might provoke when I accepted.”

“Your suspicions do you no credit as a woman of the cloth, for all that they are quite correct,” said Thranduil. “And if you are at all curious, what has happened is that your captain seems quite beside himself with jealousy, which is very satisfying, although in truth I cannot determine if he is jealous of myself or of you.”

“Of whom _should_ he be jealous, my lord?”

“Another subtle reproof, Miss Baggins. And I am justly served — I do hope you were not offended at dinner, for at the time I had no idea he had been paying his attentions to you.”

There was something in Thranduil’s tone that made Bilbo wary, and she considered carefully before saying, “It has been many years since I have considered myself eligible for any gentleman’s attentions, therefor your surprise can hardly be greater than mine.”

“And now it must be greater still,” said Thranduil. “But perhaps the captain, like myself, is a man of… wide-ranging tastes. It’s entirely possible that his affection for you is genuine.”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I do, but only a little. It is the mark of a gentleman to pay a few needless compliments to a lady. How many compliments has the captain paid you this evening?”

“I am, as you say, a woman of the cloth, not a lady,” Bilbo demurred.

“Indeed,” Thranduil said, “Though perhaps in time that will change.”

The dance ended, and before Bilbo could escape, there was a light touch on her elbow. “My dear vicar,” said Smaug, bowing low. “It appears my guests have done the unthinkable, and improved upon my own design for this humble gathering. May I ask for the next dance as an expression of my gratitude?”

“I — yes, of course, Lord John,” Bilbo said, though she wanted nothing more than to sit quietly in a corner for a few moments to regain her equanimity. “That is, if Lord Thranduil will excuse me,” she added, belatedly.

“You hardly need to excuse yourself from _me_ ,” said Lord Thranduil with a low bow over her hand, “Though I shall be inconsolable with your loss. But there is one other who is even more keenly wounded.”

Bilbo looked up and saw the captain at the door to the drawing room, speaking with Mr. Alfrid. A moment later he approached them.

“My lords, Miss Baggins,” he said. “I find myself indisposed, and if you will excuse me, my nephew and I shall take our leave. Thank you for your hospitality, my lord.”

Bilbo followed him to the door, very much aware of the stares following _her_. “Captain,” she said, as a footman helped him on with his coat, “Are you certain you wish to leave us so early?”

“Aye, Uncle,” said Fíli, joining them, “For I’m not _nearly_ so certain.”

“Fíli,” Captain Oakenshield said warningly.

“Captain,” Bilbo tried again, “If you leave now, it might appear—“

“I don’t care how it appears,” he said, snatching his gloves and hat from the footman’s grasp. “Good night.”

Fíli edged past her as she stood gaping after the captain. “He gets like that,” he apologised, bowing to her. “Goodnight — and, er, give my apologies to Miss Bowman, would you?”

“What?” Bilbo said. She seemed to have uttered it a good deal tonight.

Fíli grinned and opened his mouth, but his uncle’s sharp command at the front door recalled him. “Best be off,” he said. “But it’s been a pleasure tonight.”

Bilbo stared after the pair of them for a moment before becoming aware of someone behind her.

“Dear me,” murmured Baron Smaug, “I hope we have not offended him.”

***

Gandalf let her off at her front gate well past midnight; she was scarcely aware of the journey from the carriage to her bedchamber, as tired as she was. She managed to disrobe and pull on her nightdress without falling over, and crawled into bed gratefully, pulling the covers up to her ears. However, her mind continued to cogitate despite the hour and her fatigue, and she could not keep her eyes shut for more than a few minutes: some new thought would pop into her head and prise them open once again. 

Foremost, of course, was Thranduil’s careless revelation of his past relations with Captain Oakenshield — and more tellingly, the captain’s volcanic reactions to the mere presence of the earl. That was a far more damning indictment than the dalliance itself; after all, Bilbo was not so sheltered in the world as to think all men’s affairs concerned the heart. But to remember a former _amour_ with such passionate anger argued for a deeper involvement, and a more settled preference, than a mere affair. It was not clear at present what effect such a revelation would have on their ruse; but certainly now Smaug would be less inclined than ever to believe it. 

Perhaps that was for the best. Whatever plan the captain had in reserve could be carried out without her; he had not made any mention of her involvement, and his determination not to tell her of his plans made it likely that her part was effectively over. And it would be better for her own peace of mind not to be constantly pretending — especially now, when they were still in the midst of an argument that they had put on hold for the evening. She had found it uncomfortable to play the part of a charmed lover all night.

But Bilbo was never very good at deceiving herself. Her discomfort did not stem from the difficulty in pretending to feel something for the captain. Indeed, it was clear from her own behaviour tonight that she did, in fact, feel _something_ — a simple affection, perhaps, but certainly more than she had assumed. It had crept up on her, hiding itself behind her frustration and her irritation, but as she considered the past few days, she realised with a sinking sensation that the roots had taken firm hold already.

It did not signify, of course. Even if Thranduil was right, and the captain’s past dalliances indicated only a certain breadth of experience rather than a confirmed tendency, she had no reason to suppose Captain Oakenshield would ever be in danger from _her._ And whatever her sentiments might be, they were hardly strong enough to overcome all the impediments that lay before her. Bard had been right, when he had laughed away her idea of matrimony. She cared too much for her village, her people, her home, to give them up. She had come to the age of five and thirty without the least idea of ever taking a husband, and even as she considered the possibility now, a life as Mrs. Oakenshield seemed absurd. No matter what life it might be — if his mad quest should succeed or fail — it would hardly suit Miss Baggins of Bag End.

And yet even after settling this question in her mind, her eyes would not close and her brain would not rest. As the church bells struck three, she drew on her father’s dressing gown and thumped downstairs into the library, to curl into her father’s armchair and wait out another sleepless night. It had been her tradition since she was a little girl to seek solace in the library, her parents discovering her asleep in the chair with a book on her lap, the evening candle long since burnt out on the desk.

She had left behind most of her parents’ things when she had moved to Laketown, but the library had been moved, stock and barrel, despite the enormous expense: her father’s chair, her mother’s writing-desk, and all the books they had collected as though they were stray cats looking for homes. There were multiple copies of the same volume or solitary volumes of one book, missing their firsts and thirds. Many of them were missing pages or were sealed in wax paper to prevent their mildewed pages from spreading along the shelves. But to throw any of them out was unthinkable. It was amongst these books that Bilbo learned much of what she knew of the world, at least until she went up to Oxford and was introduced to wider ideas and people. Gandalf often remarked at how like her mother Bilbo was, but she knew there was an equal share of Bungo Baggins, whose heart lay in peace and quiet and the comfort of a good book. 

She plucked a volume off the shelf closest to the chair and balanced her lamp on the arm, opening it to some random page. She had read all the books in this little library several times over by the time she was twenty, and so whatever she had picked would hold no surprises for her.

 

> **_War Must Be_ **
> 
> _while we defend our lives_  
>  _against a destroyer_  
>  _who would devour_  
>  _all_
> 
> _but_  
>  _I do not love the bright sword_  
>  _(for its sharpness)_  
>  _nor the arrow_  
>  _(for its swiftness)_  
>  _nor the warrior_  
>  _(for his glory)_
> 
> _I love only that which they defend_

***

She awoke to a touch on her shoulder. “Miss Baggins?” The voice was very soft, and Bilbo was set to ignore it and slide back into the dream she was having, something muzzily pleasant about cheese and bread. But then she sneezed.

And sneezed again.

And opened her eyes to see Captain Oakenshield holding a veritable sheaf of roses in front of him.

“Good Lord, throw those out at once,” she exclaimed, sneezing again. She staggered to her feet and clawed at the desk drawer where she kept several handkerchiefs in reserve; through streaming eyes she saw the captain open a window and heave the whole bouquet outside.

“That,” said Captain Oakenshield, as he shut the window, “Was very expensive.”

“I have a dreadful reaction to roses,” Bilbo explained, sniffing cautiously. All seemed well enough, though her nose still itched.

“I guessed as much.”

“What on earth compelled you to bring roses for the church?” Bilbo asked, before a dreadful thought struck her. “The time — I’m not late for services, am I?”

The captain, whose brows had drawn together they way they so often did in her presence, looked amused. “It is not yet nine o’clock,” he informed her. “And I did not bring roses for the church.”

Still sleep-addled and worried about her sinuses, Bilbo took a bit longer to understand his meaning. When she did, she was hard-pressed not to roll her eyes. “If they were intended to mollify me, I can only assure you that they were profoundly counter-productive.”

“I guessed that, too.” Despite his flippant tone, he appeared uncomfortable. Bilbo was abruptly aware that she was in her dressing gown, alone with the man who was supposedly courting her. What might have she thought if he had brought her daisies or daffodils or black-eyed susans?

All manner of foolish things, she told herself sternly, and wrapped her gown about her more securely. “I thank you for the thought, at any rate. And I am glad to see you well, after you were so indisposed last night.”

Captain Oakenshield heaved a sigh. “I suppose I ought to apologise for that,” he said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That is — if you mean to apologise for what once transpired between you and Lord Thranduil, then I can assure you that apology is unnecessary. Your feelings for him are not my—“

“My feelings for _him—_ “ The captain seemed puzzled, and it was a moment before he continued. “I am sorry you discovered certain aspects of my past through means other than my frank disclosure.”

Bilbo could not help but laugh, despite her residual anger toward him. “You mean that you are… I believe Gandalf calls himself a ‘confirmed bachelor.’”

“That is a more polite term than the ones often used,” Captain Oakenshield said. “But — I am not _confirmed_. I will admit that between myself and the earl there was an understanding, which I mistook for affection. He taught me a great deal, but to be more guarded in matters of the heart was perhaps the most valuable lesson.”

Bilbo had a vision of Midshipman Oakenshield, a gangly boy who had probably not yet grown into his nose, eager for love. “I am sorry that lesson proved necessary,” she said, and cleared her throat. “But,” she continued firmly, “There are _other_ things I would like an apology for. We are, after all, still in the midst of an argument regarding my character.”

“That is why I came here this morning, and bought those hideous flowers,” he said. “I thought — I wished to speak to you. And apologise. Which I seem to do a great deal, when it comes to you,” he added, ruining the effect.

Bilbo scowled and was set to tell him at length just what he could do with his apologies, but she bit her tongue. On top of the necessity for them to at least appear to be on amicable terms, she wanted to hear his reasoning. Curiosity had never been her defining characteristic; it was most vexing that she was displaying it now. “Very well,” she said. “Can it wait until I am dressed?”

The captain blinked, and seemed to take in her attire for the first time. His face reddened. “Of course,” he said, rather too quickly. “I shall wait upon you in the parlour?”

It was peculiar in the extreme to dress herself knowing that he was downstairs — living so long alone, she could not help but be aware of every sound she made as she opened her closet door, as she kicked off her slippers, as she struggled into her Sunday soutane and wrapped the sash about her waist.

When she came into the parlour, she found him examining the matching portraits of her parents above the mantlepiece. He looked at her, then back toward the paintings. “Your mother had African blood,” he observed. “She was very beautiful.”

“Those two facts often coexist, though it seems to surprise a great many people,” Bilbo said. She sat in her chair by the fireplace and invited him to sit. “She never told me about my grandfather; I cannot believe the story is a happy one. But her mother raised her to be fearless. She sailed to the Colonies three times before she was five and twenty, spying on the Americans.”

“ _Spying_?” the captain seemed astonished. “Your mother?”

Bilbo smiled faintly. “Yes, it is hard to see her in me, I suppose. But when Mr. Somerset won his case, the American colonies became afraid they would lose their precious slavery and so began to talk of ‘revolution.’ My mother, as you might imagine, took a dim view of their motives for revolt.”

“She was a remarkable woman, then.”

“Extremely,” Bilbo assured him. “My parents met at an abolitionist’s meeting. She told me once that it was dreadfully embarrassing, falling in love with a quiet country gentleman who loved nothing more than pottering around in his garden.”

Captain Oakenshield examined her thoughtfully. “It is not so hard as you might suppose,” he said, “To see her in you.”

Bilbo could feel her face get hot. “Yes, well,” she said. “You mentioned you had an apology to offer?”

“Perhaps an explanation, more than an apology,” he said. “When we spoke at Dale Abbey—“

“When you shouted at me,” Bilbo corrected.

The captain huffed. “I see you recall with all the exactness I have come to expect from you. I believe you thought my anger stemmed from a lack of consideration for my nephew and his rather… unique vulnerability. That is not the case.”

He lapsed into silence for a moment. Bilbo held back the urge to prod him to continue; she knew now the family trait of needing a moment to gather fortitude.

Sure enough, after a moment he continued. “When I was five years old, my mother died in childbirth. When I was fifteen, my father and younger brother were killed in a fire. My sister Dís was all I had left, and her life was now my responsibility. My mother’s family was neither wealthy nor well-connected, but many had served in the fleet: the only aid they could give us was a berth on my cousin’s ship and a promise to pay for the first year of my sister’s boarding school, after which time I would have to take charge of her education — unless, of course, I was killed in action. 

“So I bid her goodbye, thinking that perhaps I would never see her again but that at least she would be looked after. Of course, she is a Durin, and an Oakenshield; we are a stubborn lot. She tried to come with me — damn’ near packed herself up in a chest to sneak on the boat. And when I marched her back to my aunt’s house she kicked and screamed the whole way, yelling that she would never forgive me and that she would hate me forever. I did not see her for six years. When I met her again, the first thing she said to me was, ‘I don’t hate you, but I still haven’t forgiven you.’ And in truth, I have never forgiven myself for leaving her behind. I assumed it was a kindness, but it was cruel to both her and to myself — we had already lost so much, and I had forced us to lose each other. If she had come with me, perhaps we would not have suffered those six years so acutely.”

“But perhaps she would have died on board, or been discovered,” Bilbo said. “You cannot blame yourself for wanting to keep her out of harm’s way.”

Captain Oakenshield shook his head. “There I fear we must disagree. You can protect your loved ones as best you are able, but you cannot forbid them their own choices. When Fíli was granted a berth, I made room for Kíli as well, for I suspected he would be even more determined than his mother had been.”

“According to Kíli, you threw him in the brig.”

For the first time in days, Captain Oakenshield smiled at her. “You cannot forbid them their own choices, but you can certainly disapprove of them. And I was prepared, if Kíli had wavered, to turn the ship around and bring it back to port. But instead he threw things at me.”

“It seems as though Kíli has always been determined,” Bilbo observed.

“That is an apt character sketch,” he said. “I will admit that when he first told me that he was a boy, I did not fully understand. He had been living aboard the _Longbeard_ as a boy for almost four years, and I had always spoken to him, even in private, as a boy. But we were set to come in to Dover and meet with Dís, and I had mentioned plans to find a dress for Kíli once we had landed. But he said, ‘Mother will be glad enough to see her children, she won’t mind about the petticoats.’”

“So you assumed I had not… understood Kíli’s nature,” Bilbo ventured, “And that is why you did not think to be concerned?”

This appeared to startle the captain, as though she had said something altogether unexpected. “No — that is, I knew that you had fully comprehended the situation. What I meant to explain, and have done a poor job of it, is that it had never occurred to me, nor shall I ever believe it possible, that you would harm my family, either by intent or by deed. I was — am — utterly sure of you in that regard.”

It was a confounding statement, said with the captain’s typical artless expression. “I am honoured indeed by your trust,” she managed. “In _that_ regard, at least.”

He caught her meaning very well. “I know you think it strange that I would trust you on that matter, only to suspect you of grilling Kíli for information regarding my plans. I am sure that my behaviour in this must seem to you infuriating. I can only say — I can only ask that you trust me, to make the situation clear to you when I am able. I assure you that I have good reason to be reticent, and it has nothing to do with your character.”

Just then, the church bells began to toll ten o’clock. Bilbo rose from her seat. “I do trust you,” she said, “Though I am not sure I altogether like you, at present.”

“I did not come to Laketown with the intention of endearing myself to the local vicar,” he said as he stood, but it was not said in temper. He was smiling. “That was clearly one of many mistakes I have made.”

“Well, I forgive you,” said Bilbo. “What is more, if you shall escort me to the Church, I can demonstrate this by once again allowing you to choose our sermon.”

He held the door open for her. “Any particular theme you would like to lecture upon?” he asked as she put on her spencer.

“If you can find one that addresses how best to cope with a suitor’s past love affairs, I would be most obliged,” she said. “Though perhaps that is somewhat too specific.”

Captain Oakenshield tripped over the doorsill.

***

After services (which were attended by none of the Erebor Park residents, much to Bilbo’s relief), Sigrid helped her out of her robes and asked, “Will you be coming along to supper, then? Father bought some mutton yesterday and I’ve made up a stew.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I worry about being the only person in the family who can cook,” Sigrid said, putting away their robes. “What will happen when I go to university? They might all starve.”

“I have every faith in Tilda’s resourcefulness.”

This was met by a flat stare. “You believe _Tilda_ will learn to cook?”

“Of course not. I believe she will stomp around the village demanding people provide her family with dinners, at which point your father will become embarrassed enough to hire a domestic.”

“You have greater faith in my father’s embarrassment threshold than I do,” Sigrid muttered as they exited the church. The congregants had long since dispersed, though down the road she could see the Company making their leisurely way toward the Abbey.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” she asked, taking Sigrid’s arm. “You and Mr. Eredson seemed to get on very well.”

Sigrid smiled, her gaze fixed on the ground. “Mr. Eredson is very amiable. And yes, I _did_ enjoy myself.” This last was said almost defiantly, as though she expected censure.

“I am glad to hear it. I know it is difficult for you to speak with people you do not know. But you behaved quite admirably.”

“More admirably than some,” Sigrid said. “What was all that business with the earl and Captain Oakenshield? It sounded quite scandalous, but when I asked Father about it later he kept laughing and would not explain.”

“Perhaps he wanted to save your maiden ears,” Bilbo demurred, but Sigrid was no less tenacious than her sister.

“A vicar must understand all aspects of human behaviour, even — if not especially — conduct which she would never engage in or condone herself,” Sigrid said. “That is a quote from _you_ , Miss Baggins.”

“Hoisted by my own petard, I see. Very well — what the earl was speaking of was indeed scandalous, though hardly more than any of the earl’s other exploits that Lady Tauriel vouchsafed to us. It appears that he and the captain were once on more intimate terms than is usual amongst those not in a marital arrangement.”

“A tryst, you mean?”

“Where on earth did you learn the word ‘tryst’?”

“From Mrs. Warren’s book.”

“Of course,” Bilbo grumbled. “I agree that it was not terribly polite of the earl to expose the captain’s past in such a public manner. But nobility are held to far lower standards than most. I suppose we should be grateful he did not challenge anyone to a drinking contest.”

“He certainly would have won,” Sigrid observed. “So does this mean that Captain Oakenshield does not truly care for you? Or merely that he has had a more libidinous—“

“Don’t finish that sentence, if you please,” Bilbo said. “Else I shall have to ask where you learned _that_ word. As for the captain’s intentions — I am the vicar of Erebor, and intend to remain serving in such a capacity until the Bishop removes me or the good Lord takes me. Any man who wanted to make me an offer would have to come second to the village, and I have not yet met a man who would gladly tolerate _that_. So his intentions are moot, though flattering.”

“Then you do not think it wrong for a lady vicar to marry? So long as her duties to her husband do not supplant her duties to her congregation?”

“Are you thinking of making Mr. Eredson an offer?” Bilbo teased.

Sigrid rolled her eyes. “I did think I was safe from _you_ ,” she complained. “Father tormented me all morning, and now Bain and Tilda are asking when they can meet the future Mr. Lady Vicar.”

“That was very wrong of him,” Bilbo said solemnly, “And not at all befitting a future father-in-law.”

“ _Miss Baggins_ ,” Sigrid pleaded.

“Very well, very well.” Bilbo considered the question. “I think to be a _married_ lady vicar would be a degree of difficulty far beyond being a spinster vicar. We are, after all, surplus women in England’s time of war — we have to make ourselves useful somehow. A married lady vicar would face a great deal of censure, since women are expected to be wives and mothers first. But wrong? No, I do not think it _wrong_. Merely hard.”

“Is… is that why you and Father never married?” Sigrid asked.

The absurdity of the question made Bilbo laugh. “Your _father_?” But then she noted the tension in Sigrid’s face; the question had been a brave one, perhaps one she had been holding for some time. “Your father is my dearest friend,” she replied, as firmly as she knew how, “And a kinder man I have never met on this good Earth. But he has only ever felt for me earnest friendship, and I have only ever felt for him the same.”

“I understand,” she said, kicking at pebbles in the road. “It’s just — Bain always said that you and Father would marry one day, when Father was ready. I think it was more what he hoped for, though. Not what we actually thought would happen.”

“Did _you_ once hope for that?" Bilbo asked, surprised.

Sigrid shrugged, her eyes on the road beneath their feet. "Perhaps, when you first came here. I was just a child," she added, from the great age of sixteen years looking back at the tender age of twelve. “But I never really thought _any_ woman would want a husband who came with three children already.”

“Sigrid—“ Bilbo paused. The wound Sigrid had just shown her ran deep, and a flippant answer would not suffice. “I hold you all closer to my heart than anyone else in the world. I hope you know that. There is no family on Earth that I feel more a part of.”

Sigrid nodded again, and as she looked up Bilbo saw her eyes shining with tears — but the arm linked with hers held her close.

***

Dinner was, as ever, a raucous affair, full of Tilda’s disapproval over the quality of sweets that Gandalf had handed out before services and Bain’s expostulations over the most recent case his father was working on, as well as Bard’s own opinions on the matter.

“I don’t see why Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Ingress can’t simply take Solomon’s path and split the cow in two,” Bilbo said.

“For the same reason Solomon’s petitioners could not,” Bard sighed. “Apparently there is some family sentiment over this cow.”

“It’s a very pretty cow,” Tilda confirmed. “Lovely great eyelashes.”

Later on, while the children were out in the yard catching fireflies, Bilbo sat on the bench with Bard as he smoked his after-dinner pipe. “Did you know Sigrid and Bain once had plans for us to marry?”

She half-hoped that he would cough out a smoke ring, but instead he only took a thoughtful pull. “Bain still does, I suspect. That, or he’ll make you an offer himself once he comes of age. I don’t think he really considers me good enough for you.”

“He’s quite right,” Bilbo replied. “But you _yourself_ never—“ She was not sure quite how to finish the question.

Fortunately, Bard was good enough to answer. “No, my dear Miss Baggins. You and I will live out our days as the best of friends, I have no doubt. But you are the vicar of Erebor,” he said, echoing her own proclamation earlier in the day, “And that suits you far better than Mrs. Bard Bowman ever could.”

“That is true enough,” she allowed. “But I’ll have you know I am worth almost two thousand pounds a year. Quite a tidy sum, even if I can’t cook or clean. What are _you_ , to snub _me_?”

Bard laughed, and did after all cough on his pipe. She clapped him on the back a few times and the children rushed over, exclaiming that he ought to stop smoking at once, that he ought to get inside before he caught cold, that someone ought to fetch some water. An argument then broke out over _who_ ought to fetch it, with the result that all three children disappeared within — Bilbo could only assume they would take turns carrying the glass and end up spilling it before they’d returned.

“What am I?” Bard said, his voice somewhat hoarse. “I’m afraid, Miss Baggins, that I am still a married man.”

***

 


	8. Chapter 8

Kíli was all dejection when Bilbo came to visit him early Monday morning. “I’ve been locked up for an age of the earth,” he said plaintively. “If you have any goodness at all in your heart, help me to the gardens, where I can at least breathe the air of a free man.”

“You do not appear to be a prisoner,” Bilbo observed. Kíli’s bed was surrounded on all sides by various amusements: a checkers set, several whittling projects, a precarious tower of books, a scrimshaw.

“But I _am_ ,” he wheedled. “I am sure you could convince Óin to let me walk outside, could you not? I solemnly swear not to injure myself. Again.”

When appealed to, Mr. Óin did seem swayed by her promise to ensure Kíli did not compromise himself further. “Should’ve let him out of bed yesterday,” he bellowed as he hung up some kingsfoil to dry in the pantry, “But the lad’s got a habit of getting knocked about, then running around and making it worse. Ask him about that time just off the port of Marseilles when he got himself hanged.”

So Bilbo consented to assist Kíli down the stairs only on the condition that she hear the story of his hanging. Kíli, balanced on his good leg with Bilbo under his good arm, scowled so thunderously that Bilbo was reminded greatly of his uncle. “It was only a bit,” he said, hopping down one stair and waiting for Bilbo to move down to the next. “Nori cut me down in less than a minute, so no harm done.”

“Who on earth was hanging you in the first place?” Bilbo demanded, descending another stair. They were halfway down and she was beginning to regret her demand for the story; she was so distracted by her outrage over his past folly that she was not paying the proper attention to his current idiocy.

“Frenchies,” Kíli answered succinctly. “Captured me and a few others off the coast.”

“They generally hang _spies_ , not sailors,” Bilbo pointed out. At last they made the ground floor and she was able to help him with a minimum of difficulty out into the gardens, which was rather a grand name for a simple set of hedges and kitchen plants.

“That’s true,” Kíli said cheerfully. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t ask me any questions that would require me to betray king and country, would you?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Bilbo sighed, and sat them both down on a stone bench.

“Now, you’ve gotten your story, so I want mine. Uncle won’t talk about the other evening up at Erebor and Fíli’s useless — apparently all he paid attention to was how amusing Miss Bowman was.”

“He found her amusing?” There were worse epithets, Bilbo reflected, though on the whole she rather suspected that Sigrid would not find it heartening. “Very well, what would you like to know?”

“For a start, the marvellous girl: was she in attendance? Describe her in every particular. Fíli remembered that she wore a dress and seemed to have four limbs and a head.”

“Yes, she had all of those. She wore a very lovely frock that is fitting to a lady of noble birth, which she is — and the Earl of Mirkwood’s ward besides,” she said, trying as hard as she could to convey a warning.

“Oh! I thought she might be the Earl’s bride or some such,” Kíli said, brightening. “Only his ward? Excellent.”

“You are… possibly not aware,” Bilbo said, “But there does seem to be some history between your uncle and the earl. Unhappy history — one that may make an alliance between yourself and your marvellous girl impracticable.”

This news did not seem to discourage Kíli in the slightest. “I’ve read Romeo & Juliet,” he said, in the tone of one who wishes to give reassurance. “We even performed a few scenes aboard the _Longbeard_ , when we were becalmed and spirits were low. I was a most excellent Mercutio.”

“Mercutio dies in the play,” Bilbo pointed out. “As do Romeo and Juliet.”

“I shall make sure to ingest no poisons in the near future,” he dismissed.

“Your uncle might feed them to you,” Bilbo laughed, shaking her head. “Speaking of which, is he not at home? I expected to see him here this morning.”

“Did you, now?” Kíli said, his attention shifting from thoughts of Tauriel with worrying speed. “Am I not enough to entertain you?”

“You are _more_ than enough.”

“Was there any particular business you wished to see him about?” he asked, teasing. “A request for a different bouquet of flowers, perhaps?”

“Information does get ‘round amongst you sailors,” Bilbo grumbled.

“I think it’s very charming.”

“What, that I’m allergic to roses?”

Kíli only laughed. “Uncle will be back this afternoon, I believe. He received a letter this morning that had him fetching his coat and hat with some haste — though I doubt it was anything serious.”

“What makes you think that?” Bilbo asked.

“Because he complained a great deal about having to depart so early,” Kíli replied. “He’s been my uncle all my life, and my captain for at least half of that — whenever things go to pot he’s got his hand to the tiller and no nonsense. It’s only when the sailing is smooth that he gets stroppy about the swabbing.”

“I didn’t understand a word of that, but I’ll trust you,” Bilbo said.

“And I, you. So tell me more about the marvellous girl. What’s her name?”

“Did your brother not even remember _that_ much?”

“He could only remember that it began with the letter T. As I said, useless.”

“Her name is Lady Tauriel,” Bilbo said. “I believe her father was a baronet.”

“Lady Tauriel. Isn’t that the name of a star? So fitting,” Kíli sighed, clearly already aloft on the wings of infatuation.

Bilbo huffed. “Allow me to understand fully: you are hoping to court a young lady three inches taller and thirty times richer than yourself, who first met you when you were stranded after having fallen off your horse and suffering a dislocated shoulder and a sprained ankle, who subsequently righted your shoulder herself and ferried you five miles in silence while you tried — and wholly failed — to engage her interest, and who then drove off without leaving her name or direction, and who is now revealed to be under the guardianship of a man your uncle detests?”

“When you put it like that, Miss Baggins, my suit looks quite hopeless,” Kíli complained.

***

As it was the first Monday of the month, and only a few weeks until Easter, Bilbo eschewed her afternoon rounds in favour of writing to the bishop. It was a tradition that a majority of the clergy did not adhere to — certainly Gandalf never troubled Saruman with a report on how his rectory was faring. But Bilbo was not Gandalf; she made sure to draft a short letter each month to Canterbury. She had only ever met Saruman once, and found him an icicle of a man, but it was widely rumoured that he had played a role in not only the acceptance of female ordinates but the nomination of Bishop Galadriel to the York archbishopric. So Bilbo did her duty out of respect and always took care to add a few lines on the general state of the Laketown rectory, as well as Erebor’s parish within it.

This month’s letter, she reflected as she made her way into town, would be somewhat awkward.

But when she arrived at the church, she found an ornate barouche waiting at the front doors. It was the same one that had passed her by on the drive to Erebor not five days ago, complete with matching black-coated horses and matching blue-coated coachmen. Two of the horses and three of the coachmen turned to watch her approach; she skirted around them and made her way up the stairs.

Lord Thranduil was up in the pulpit, leaning heavily on the stand and examining the Holy Book of Erebor with bored disinterest, his left hand propping up his head. He did not look up as she approached, though the fingers of his right hand waggled at her in greeting. “I see Smaug’s farmers share the same habit as my own of inscribing local family trees into the parish bible,” he said as he turned another page. “I’ve always found it crass.”

“Records are ill-kept in the country, my lord,” she said, taking off her bonnet and loosening her scarf. She did not take it off; the church still held the chill of the early morning, for all that it was midday. “And some of our poorer families do not have amongst them someone who can read. The Church can remind them of their family’s origins, when it is lost to them.”

“Useful, too, when it comes to more mundane matters. Such as inheritance.” The earl turned to a specific page and read out. “Thrain, son of Thror, grandson of Thrain. I see that the Church doesn’t record the names of by-blows. Perhaps because it did not know them?”

Bilbo did not reply. She could not think of the proper words, the proper questions. Had the Baron told Thranduil of his suspicions as to Captain Oakenshield’s heritage? Had he found out himself, through some other means? Had he always known — had Captain Oakenshield confided in him as a callow boy, believing passion conferred trustworthiness? But to ask anything was impossible. Instead she cleared her throat. “We have inscribed Lord Smaug’s family tree in the book as well.”

“And Smaug is the last man I’d suspect of fathering a _natural_ child,” Thranduil said, but he flipped back a few pages and found it. “Ah, here it is. So many branches, converging on one man. What do you think will happen if he dies without issue?”

“You are no doubt better-versed in nobility and the issues of inheritance than I, my lord,” Bilbo said. “What brings you here this afternoon?”

Oddly enough, this made him smile. He shut the book; the sound of it echoed in the empty church as he descended the pulpit to circle round the altar. “You would never believe me if I said something ridiculous, such as ‘the pleasure of your company, Miss Baggins.’ Would you?”

“I would not.”

“Nor should you,” he said, cheerful. “I seldom find pleasure in anyone’s company — not even my own. But you’re quite an interesting creature.”

“Am I?” she asked. Conversing with the earl felt a great deal like dancing on quicksand; in this he was not dissimilar to his friend, with veiled meanings and clever turns of phrase. Yet there the similarity ended. Thranduil was dangerous, to be sure, and it was impossible to know where he stood or what he knew. But he did not make her fearful: only uneasy, and even then she could not suppress a certain amusement.

“Fascinating, really. A lady vicar, here in the wilds of the Lakes District, with no ambition but to tend to her flock and live out her days in quiet. If you were given a potion or a magic ring that granted you all the powers of the earth, you’d use them for selfless acts of charity, I have no doubt.”

“I fail to see what’s so fascinating about that,” Bilbo said, climbing the steps to the altar. He was still taller than her — ridiculously tall — but she was growing tired of standing in the pews. “Any clergywoman might do the same.”

“Perhaps. I’m ill-acquainted with the breed. But you must admit, for someone like you and someone like me — for us both to have the same man in common — _that_ surely must be a point of interest.”

Bilbo tilted her head, regarding him. “Do you mean to offend me, my lord?” she asked, “Or is this simply your usual way of conducting yourself?”

Thranduil laughed. “I always mean to offend. How else to find out what offends people?”

“It’s not something I am usually very curious about,” she said.

“No, your interests lie elsewhere, I’m sure. But in all seriousness, I look at you and wonder what in dear Mr. Oakenshield might have changed in the past quarter-century. I expected him to marry, of course — but to set his sights on an ordinary lady vicar seems very out of character. It follows, then, that you must be an _extraordinary_ lady vicar.”

“If you care to stop by our services on Sunday, perhaps you can see for yourself.”

“Do you consider me a rival for the good captain’s affections?” he asked abruptly, his eyes narrowed as he watched her.

“No,” Bilbo replied levelly.

“An honest answer,” he said, nodding to himself. “Are all clerics as honest as you, I wonder? I’m such a novice in these hallowed halls, perhaps I wouldn’t know what dishonesty looks like. Tell me a lie, Miss Baggins, so that I may have the comparison. What can I ask you that will prompt you suitably?”

“You could ask—” Bilbo began, but was interrupted by the sound of the front door. Captain Oakenshield, wearing a riding jacket and holding a crop (and, indeed, walking with a slight limp that she recognised from the half-dozen times she had seen him thrown from a saddle), came up the central passageway toward them. 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded of Thranduil, after a long look at Bilbo.

“Such a flair for the dramatic, Captain,” Thranduil replied. “You’ve not changed in _that_ particular, at least. As for my business, I rather think that is between me and my confessor, is it not?” He turned to Bilbo, smiling broadly.

“This is the Church of England,” she reminded him, trying not to smile back. She did not want to like him — was not at all sure that she _did_ like him, for certainly she did not trust him. But there was something about him that appealed. “Confession is for Catholics, my lord.”

The earl snapped his fingers. “Foiled yet again. But as it happens, I have come to seek Miss Baggins’s invaluable input: since Smaug has allowed me my ball, I require a lady of standing in the village to aid me in planning. I thought perhaps the Saturday after next?”

“That would be the day before Easter, my lord. I do not think it would be altogether proper.”

He frowned prettily. “How vexing. Then I suppose it will simply have to be next Saturday, for I cannot bear the thought of being in this vile place for the _entirety_ of April. You must promise me one day to visit me in London, Miss Baggins; I assure you there is nothing so perfect as a week spent doing absolutely nothing in a city where you can do absolutely anything.” He turned to Captain Oakenshield, who had been all this while twisting his riding crop in his hands as though it were the neck of a chicken — or an earl. “Don’t you agree, my dear friend?”

“Captain Oakenshield is my rank and name,” he said. “I would ask that you not press upon me further titles, my lord.”

“Offended him again, I think,” Thranduil said confidingly to Bilbo. “But there, I have capitulated to your demands — and in point of fact, _you_ are the intruder, Captain Oakenshield. I might just as well ask what _you_ are doing here.”

Captain Oakenshield glowered at this, as though he were still a midshipman of seventeen. “I’ve come to speak to the vicar on private business,” he said.

“I suppose, to a vicar, all business is private,” Thranduil mused as he made his way down the steps. “Still, the business between the two of _you_ must be more private than most. I bid you good day, Miss Baggins. Make sure to lock the doors behind me, unless you would risk interruption.” He brushed by the captain with a cordial nod that was not reciprocated, and bowed himself out of the church.

“A very convincing display of manly jealousy,” Bilbo said, “Though I don’t know that I enjoy it very much.”

“A convincing display?” echoed Captain Oakenshield. “I am glad you think it so.”

“What _is_ your business here, if I may ask?” she said, collecting the dried-out flowers at the altar in her arms and making her way toward the back door. “Your nephew said you had left town; I did not expect you at all today.”

“You have been to Dale Abbey this morning?” he asked, following her out into the churchyard.

Bilbo deposited the flowers in the compost heap that Mr. Gamgee kept well-tended. “To see how Mr. Kíli’s injuries fared,” she explained, brushing the dried petals off her skirts. “He seemed not altogether pleased with his imprisonment.”

“His imprisonment is the fault of his own damnable carelessness,” Captain Oakenshield rumbled. “I’ve had to deal with too many relapses on his part, after he was convinced that he was well and pushed himself too hard in order to prove it.”

She laughed. “Your affection must be difficult to bear, Captain,” she said. “Everyone you love seems to suffer for it.”

That earned her a glare as well, though it softened after a moment and he even smiled, very slightly. “How fortunate that my affection for you is entirely artificial, then,” he said. “No doubt you would find it more trouble than it was worth.”

“No doubt,” replied Bilbo, but she could not suppress the sinking of her heart even as she smiled back at him. An entirely ridiculous notion, she thought to herself, and made her way back into the church. He shadowed her as she made her way down the central passageway and into her office; his silence was unnerving in the extreme, but when she had retreated behind the safety of her desk and gestured him to a seat, he seemed lost in thought, unaware of his own reticence. He noticed the movement of her seating herself and started very slightly.

“Forgive me,” he said, clearing his throat as he sat down. “I was thinking of — something else.”

“Kíli mentioned that you had to leave this morning in some haste. Was your mission another secret that I cannot be privy to? Or did you merely need a tooth pulled?”

But instead of answering her with either information or refusal, he considered her for a long moment. “You seem bent on knowing more than I am willing to tell you.”

“Or perhaps I merely wish to make life difficult,” she countered.

“You have accomplished that in spades, if I might say so,” he said, though it was not with any great bitterness or reproof. Instead he seemed amused. “Very well — an answer for an answer. You would know my business this morning, and in turn I have long wished to ask you something.”

“And if I decline to answer?” Bilbo asked, ignoring her sunken heart’s fitful jump.

The captain spread his hands. “Then we remain in the dark, Miss Baggins.”

“Very well — ask your question.”

He leaned back in his seat, his eyebrows raised. “I did not expect such ready agreement. Are you so curious?”

“You bring out the worst in me, Captain,” she replied sweetly.

“That much is clear. Very well — when Smaug came to your house and threatened you—“ Captain Oakenshield lifted his hand to forestall her protest, “And I know that that is not the word you would use. But his conduct was not that of a gentleman, and certainly not that of a friend; and he should be both to you after so long an acquaintance. But as to my question — when he interrogated you as to my reasons for being here in Laketown, you knew the truth. You owed me no courtesy; I had been no less threatening to you only a few days before, and you had little reason to believe in me or in my quest. You could have told Smaug everything. And instead, you lied.”

Bilbo waited, but the captain seemed to have concluded his speech. “I’ve failed to hear the question, if you would be so kind as to make it plain,” she said.

“I should think it obvious,” he said, somewhat testily. “Why did you do it? I do not believe it was fear that compelled you to lie. But I would like to know what _did_.”

“I see,” Bilbo said. “That is, indeed, a question that I might decline to answer.”

“I thought it might be,” said the captain. “Which is why I have waited to ask it.”

She looked down; her hands were in her lap, clenched into fists; when she released them she could feel the marks of her fingernails in the soft flesh of her palm. “Do I have your word that what I say will go no further than this room?”

This surprised him, but he replied, “Upon my honour.”

“Then… then I shall tell you a story, Captain Oakenshield, one that Mr. Balin once sensed.” Carefully, she put her hands on the smooth wood of the desk. She did not look up as she continued. “My mother brought me here to Laketown when I was a child. Every summer, as a treat. She and Gandalf were old and dear friends, and I had the run of the Rectory. I don’t have very many clear memories of the place back then; it was a pleasant spot, but we three generally kept to ourselves. But every year the local townspeople would hold the Running — oh.” She glanced up. “No doubt Roper has explained that particular bygone tradition?”

“He did,” said the captain, in a voice quieter than she had heard before. “Though he wouldn’t answer Fíli’s question about _why_ it was bygone.”

“It’s probable he does not know,” Bilbo said. “At any rate — the last Running was held at Erebor Park, almost a year after Lord Smaug had taken possession. It was my second year as a participant and I was much too set on winning first place — I had only gotten third the year before, and wanted to regain my honour. And so I was careless, and the colt I was riding stumbled. But we still won, and everyone was cheering and I remember thinking that I would never be happier. Lord Smaug gave me the biggest orange in the box, and there was cake, and it was marvellous. Only then I started feeling a bit guilty about my little colt, who’d stumbled and perhaps hurt himself because I was so headstrong. So the next morning I slipped out before breakfast and walked up to the Park — my colt had been one from the Erebor herd.

“I was only nine years old, you understand, so I don’t remember exactly when Smaug found me — if I had already seen the colt or if I was still standing on the edge of the fence looking for him. I do remember he had a stable boy lead the colt out of the pasture for me to see: he was badly lame. I’d been so incompetent that the colt would never recover, he said. I said I was sorry, but he told me apologies were useless. He lead the poor little colt out to the front lawn, where we had won our stupid race the day before, and told me he was going to have it slaughtered.” She had closed her eyes at some point; it helped in some small way, made her feel more able to push the words out. Had she ever told this story before? “A wiser soul would have tried persuasion, but I was a child, and very stupid, so I became angry. I clenched my hands into fists and stood in front of the poor little colt while the footman brought Lord Smaug his hunting rifle. I told him he was a monster for killing this horse, that I would nurse it back to health myself, that it was unfair. All manner of children’s arguments, really. I suppose the Baron grew tired of my shouting, because the next thing I remember he had put the rifle in my hands.

“I tried to give it back; I told him I did not know how, that I didn’t want to, that I wanted to go home. He said that I was a clever girl and could guess how it worked, and that what I wanted did not matter. He said that a lame horse would trouble him with time and expense, but a dead horse would provide meat for the dogs, and since I was the one who had burdened him with a lame horse, it was my duty to provide him with a dead one. He said that it was what I deserved. I should have run away, or thrown the rifle down on the ground; to this day I don’t know why I didn’t, only that at the time it seemed like I _couldn’t_. I could only do what he told me to. I have never been more afraid.

“I shot it through the temple — I knew that much, at least. I must have been crying, but I can’t remember any noise afterwards: not birdsong or wind or even the sound of the colt falling over.”

“The report of the rifle,” Captain Oakenshield said. Bilbo blinked her eyes open. She had not wanted to look him in the face, sure she would see disgust or pity or perhaps even irritation. After all, what was the quick slaughter of a horse to him, a sailor and soldier who had served in war? But she saw understanding as he continued, “It would have deafened you for a short while, most probably.”

“That seems sensible,” she allowed. “The next thing I heard was Gandalf, shouting my name. There was no sign of the Baron — just me and a rifle and that poor dead creature. Looking back, it seems absurd that Gandalf believed my account of events. But he held me gently for a while until I could rise, and took me back to the Rectory to my mother, who had been the one to notice my absence at breakfast and had guessed where I’d gone. I had a bruise as large as a fist on my right shoulder from the recoil and another bruise on my left — Mother said it was in the shape of a hand, as though someone had held me in place and gripped hard enough to leave marks. I don’t remember the pain of it; only the sound and the smell and the silence."

"A pretty phrase," the captain said, but his expression was solemn.

"Well, I am a vicar. Given to speeches at the drop of a hat." She laced her fingers together. “Gandalf drove us to Bromley that afternoon, where we took the coach home to Hobbiton, and I did not see this place again for more than twenty years. But from what I’ve been told, Mr. Bowman — that is, your landlord’s father — refused to hold the Running the following year, and so the tradition died. I do not know if Gandalf told him what had happened; the elder Mr. Bowman died several years before I took the vicarage here, and I never spoke of it with Gandalf. Until recently,” she added, remembering that strange moment at Gandalf’s rectory the day of Kíli’s accident.

“Why not?” asked the captain.

“That is another question,” Bilbo said. She cleared her throat, wishing she had thought to draw up some water from the well when she had been outside. “But that, Captain Oakenshield, is why I have kept faith with you and not with my patron. That is why I will do what I can to help you in your quest. A very petty personal grudge, I suppose.”

“Not petty,” he disagreed.

“But personal,” she replied.

“Not that either, I do not think,” said Captain Oakenshield. “But you are right — I understand you better now.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said. “Better understanding cannot but worsen your opinion, in this instance. This story hardly casts me in a flattering light.”

“On the contrary, Miss Baggins,” he said. “This story — it’s why you took the Vicarage, isn’t it? So that you save others from having their own stories of the baron.”

It was disconcerting to be known so well by a man she could hardly make out at all, but she said only, “Put that way, it sounds quite dramatic.”

“I’m given to understand that I have a flair for it,” Captain Oakenshield said, then more soberly, “I am sorry for what you have endured at his hands, Miss Baggins.”

“You were not the cause of it,” she said, “But I am glad this has not caused me to fall precipitously in your esteem — we do, after all, still have a courtship to maintain, and it would be a pity if your regard for me was so low that you could no longer feign affection. Now, if there’s nothing further, I shall grant you pardon from your escort duties today; I have parish affairs to attend to.”

“Then I shall leave you in peace, and call upon the Vicarage tomorrow morning.” He stood to leave, but at the doorway he paused and turned back. “You are wrong, Miss Baggins, if I may be permitted to say so.”

“You already have,” she said, puzzled. “But how I am wrong this time?”

“Wrong to think that I could hold you in anything but the very highest regard,” he said. “I bid you good day.”

Bilbo was so startled by this that it was fully ten minutes before she realised that he had departed before telling her what had drawn him away from Dale Abbey that morning.

***

Nor did she manage to winkle out Captain Oakenshield’s secret the following day; for at ten o’clock there was a knock on the door. Bilbo, wiping the crumbs from her apron, opened it to discover Legolas and Tauriel on her front porch, twin carved marble statues in celebration of the ideal until Legolas frowned at her and said, “You have jam on your chin.”

Tauriel cleared her throat mightily. “Good morning,” she said, loudly. “We have come to invite you to Erebor Park for luncheon; Lord Thranduil is anxious to begin plans for the assembly ball next week.”

To fumble for a handkerchief was to admit weakness; Bilbo merely replied, “If you would give me one moment, I would be happy to accept.” A thought occurred to her, and she opened the door further to invite them in. “In fact, I must ask a favour of one of you: I have an appointment with Captain Oakenshield, and if Lord Thranduil requires me for any great length of time today, I would not wish for him to come all this way only to find me not at home. I shall write a brief note for him and one of you could drive the note to Dale Abbey, if you would be so good.”

Legolas frowned again, or possibly was still frowning. “But we only have one carriage,” he said.

“That makes no matter,” Bilbo said, sitting down at her desk and surreptitiously retrieving one of her handkerchiefs to dab at her face. “The one who does not take the letter can simply walk with me back to Erebor.”

She began to write as she tried not to hear the hissed conversation behind her, culminating with Tauriel saying, “If it is acceptable to you, Miss Baggins, I will deliver your message to the sailors, and Legolas can accompany you back to the park.”

“It would be my pleasure,” muttered Legolas.

Bilbo bit the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from laughing, and jotted down a few words:

> _Dear Captain,_
> 
> _Have been called to Erebor on matters of party-planning; no need to call out the Navy today, though if you could stop by the Holdwaists’ cottage and inquire after the parsnips that they were worried about, I would be obliged; Mrs. Cuttlebroth has some seeds from last year, and it is certainly possible for them to get a good crop despite the frost. (The Holdwaists, not the Cuttlebroths.)_
> 
> _Also I am sure that you will try to glare and grumble at the poor girl bearing this note, but remember that you owe her at least the use of your nephew’s arm and shoulder. If Kíli should see her, so much the better; I suspect his pash on her will fade quickly with further exposure — and if not, she seems well able to set him in his place and end the matter conclusively._
> 
> _I can already sense your disapproving scowl, and I would remind you that wrinkles between the brows are as unattractive on the male sex as they are on the fairer._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Miss Baggins_

***

The walk with Legolas to Erebor — conducted in funereal silence, with Legolas staring straight ahead as though marching to his execution — was the most pleasant part of the day. Thranduil himself was hardly a trial, though he required a good deal of patience; he seemed to think that Laketown’s lack of a standing opera company and orchestra a personal affront, and the dearth of readily available bunting was a sore point that came up again and again.

But despite that, the task at hand might have been a diverting one, if not for Smaug’s lurking presence on the periphery; making suggestions and adding commentary that on its surface seemed benign, but held a glittering malice underneath. Thranduil seemed to sense it as as well, though it amused rather than alarmed him.

“Who do you suggest should pay for all this?” Smaug asked at one point, leaning over from his seat on the divan to pluck a sheet of paper from the small pile Bilbo had made on the table. Bilbo glanced up; he was looking at her.

“I assumed that detail would be attended to by the honoured lords here present,” she said, with a sinking feeling.

“But _such_ a detail!” Thranduil exclaimed. “The Baron, you see, has wealth beyond counting, and men do not accumulate wealth by giving it away. No; when they spend money, they must ensure that it is spent by _others._ ” 

“What do you suggest?” Bilbo asked. 

“Nothing too onerous for your parishioners,” Smaug replied carelessly. “A simple fee — a subscription. Most public balls require one, as I recall.”

“You recall entirely correctly,” Thranduil assured him. “It keeps the rabble out; those unable or unwilling to pay will not be missed, even in a town as provincial as this.”

“But my dear friend,” Smaug said, “This is _for_ the rabble, as much as it is for you; I do not think I would want any of my parishioners to abstain from the merriment you are planning for them. If they cannot be bothered to attend, I must ask myself what is it about my patronage that would so offend?”

“Surely you would not—“ Bilbo started, but it was madness to begin so, and therefore she cleared her throat and tried again. “As grateful as the townspeople would be for such an event, and as many as I am sure would wish to attend, it may not be possible for everyone in Laketown to pay a subscription, no matter how small.”

“Yes, so many in need, are there not?” Smaug sighed, tossing the paper back onto the table. It floated and curled, falling instead onto the floor at Bilbo’s feet. “Still, I think I ought to insist. It will do them good to earn their gift, will it not?”

Bilbo could not help herself. “It would do them more good to receive a gift, Lord John, and one without strings. To make this ball compulsory _and_ to insist on payment are two very thick ropes.”

The silence stretched, akin to the moment before a crystal glass shatters upon the floor.

The captain had been right, in a way. She had come to Laketown not in spite of the Baron’s presence, but because of it: because she felt sure in her own ability to shield others from what she had suffered. And she had thought herself quite adept at the art of managing Smaug over the years; at redirecting his petty grudges or contempt for the plight of his tenants into more harmless pursuits. She had even congratulated herself from time to time, after rescuing a tenant who had fallen behind in his rent from eviction, or providing an excuse to a labourer who had worked insufficiently tending Erebor’s fields. It had been easy — but looking at his narrowed eyes, the calculation behind them as he took in her protest, she wondered if it had only ever been easy because he had allowed her to think she could influence him. And now she had directly contradicted him, something she had avoided at all costs before. What would he glean from that — what delicate thing had she toppled over in her anger?

But instead of a crash, there was only Thranduil’s groan of protestation. “This is precisely why I told you _I_ would pay for the entire affair,” he said to Smaug, leaning down to retrieve the errant piece of paper. “You always were so horribly tedious when it came to finance, Smaug. It’s made you into a positive bore. Miss Baggins, I cannot command the Baron to remove his decree that every man, woman and child shall attend this fete, but if you will draw up an account as to the number of residents in Laketown and Erebor Park, I shall pay their subscriptions myself.”

“Perhaps the subscriptions will be more than you can afford,” Smaug replied, with something akin to temper. It was unlike the cold flash she had seen at her house weeks ago; this was uncontrolled, unrehearsed. If Bilbo did not know better, she would suspect him of being angry. “I have not yet set the price.”

“Whatever it may be, I can pay it,” Thranduil said, a lazy smile on his face. “It is the advantage I hold, my dear friend — for if you are wealthy beyond counting, mine is beyond _imagination_.”

Any further developments were forestalled by Mr. Alfrid opening the door to announce Lady Tauriel. She came in, her riding hat still under one arm, and took in the scene. She blanched and seemed ready to turn on her heel when Legolas, who had been up to this moment cowering in a corner behind a newspaper, leapt to his feet.

“I was beginning to worry,” he said, in tones that made clear he had not been worried in the slightest. “You were gone a very long time—“

“Beloved!” Thranduil cried out. “Just what we need, a pair of fresh eyes. As well as — oh dear, I was just about to say something offensive,” he said mournfully, turning doleful eyes on Bilbo.

“I am sure it would not have offended me,” Bilbo said.

“Such confidence in the young,” Thranduil said. “There might be something to this country life after all, my dear boy.”

From his corner, where he had once again retreated behind his newspaper, there was a soft snort from Legolas.

“What _were_ you going to say?” Smaug enquired silkily. “As Miss Baggins has said, it cannot possibly offend her.”

Tauriel, with the look of a condemned soul, came further into the parlour and seated herself beside her guardian. “He was going to say that my taste is more refined than is Miss Baggins’,” she answered, “And while I am sure Miss Baggins would not be offended by that remark, it _is_ offensive, and I apologise most heartily on his behalf, Miss Baggins.”

This was said with such a serious countenance that Bilbo almost laughed. “I forgive him with equal heart, Lady Tauriel.”

Mr. Alfrid, still at the door, coughed deprecatingly. “My Lord, Mr. Master said—“

“Ah, yes,” Smaug replied, pulling himself to his feet. “My duties lie elsewhere, Thranduil, but I’m sure I’ll hear all about the arrangements you’ve made later tonight. Miss Baggins, it is as ever a pleasure to have you grace my halls. Lady Tauriel, Legolas.” And with a neat bow, he departed, Mr. Alfrid trailing after him.

Thranduil was still glaring at his ward. “You presume to answer for me?” he demanded. “I might _not_ have said that.”

“True — you might have said something even worse,” Tauriel said confidently. “But this way you have been both punished, by not getting to say the wicked thing yourself, and forgiven, which I am sure you would not have been if I had allowed you to speak what was _truly_ on your mind.”

“Where have you been?” Thranduil asked with his usual abrupt change of tack. “I did not even notice your absence.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. I was discharging an errand Miss Baggins entrusted to me.” Having informed Thranduil, she turned her attention to Bilbo. “Your note was safely delivered.”

“Delivered to whom?” Thranduil asked.

“Thank you, Lady Tauriel, I appreciate your taking the trouble.”

Thranduil was, at this point, becoming quite out of sorts. “Taking the trouble to _what_?” he complained.

“She went to Dale Abbey,” Legolas announced from over the top of his paper, “To inform Captain Oakenshield of some change in their plans. Because of _you_ ,” he added, turning a page noisily.

“Did I truly disrupt your plans with the captain today?” Thranduil exclaimed. “How wonderful! Tell me, Tauriel, was he very cross? Did he smash something? He’s only a tenant, I believe — whoever’s house it is, he’ll have to pay for damages.”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Tauriel said. “He asked me to wait while he composed a letter to return to you — that is why I was delayed.”

Bilbo, aware that all eyes in the parlour were upon her, did her best not to betray herself and her own suspicions that the captain may have accorded Kíli a moment of kindness in detaining the Lady Tauriel for even a few moments. Instead she endeavoured to look impartial as she asked, “I hope you were not too distressed by the sailors in residence. I have found them a very pleasant company, though their manners may be somewhat rough.”

“That is fully half their charm,” Thranduil said. “Though I cannot imagine _Tauriel_ would share my sentiment.”

“Here is the letter,” said Tauriel as she retrieved from her reticule. 

Thranduil looked at it intently, though his breeding held firm enough to prevent him from attempting to snatch it up. Bilbo slid the note into her pocket without opening it, which vexed him further. “You are _thoroughly_ provoking,” he complained.

“It grieves me to hear you say so,” Bilbo said, and with a few more muttered imprecations, Thranduil was persuaded to turn his attention back to the matter of the ball.

When at last she was released that evening, she waited until she had cleared the gates of the park before unfolding the paper.

> _Dear Miss Baggins,_
> 
> _I have been informed that somewhere along the battlements of the castle there is a lone cannon — relic from the days of Erebor’s earnest fortification._
> 
> _If you have need of re-enforcement, find your way to the battlements and signal your distress; we shall undertake a rescue operation forthwith._
> 
> _—T.O._
> 
> _P.S. If your messenger tells you that I took too long writing this, please understand that it was entirely in accordance with your desire that my idiot nephew be indulged. I am sure she will_ _not_ _inform you of the fact that they walked through the gardens and, according to Bombur who was tending the herbs, she laughed at nearly all his jokes. If this turns to disaster, I shall place all blame squarely on your shoulders._

***

Bilbo went home and ate a light supper of cold ham, cheese, bread, buttered parsnips and soup before dragging herself upstairs for some well-earned rest. It had been a long day, even when she considered that all she had really done was sit on a comfortable sofa and write things down. There was something exceedingly draining about the residents of Erebor, and as she drifted off to sleep she thought it a good thing that these new visitors would be gone before Easter.

Such pleasant thoughts ought to have made her sleep restful, but she awoke with a start from a nightmare just after dawn, and as she watched the sun creep over the windowsill she remembered every word of her argument with Smaug. She had always known the baron to be grasping, but yesterday’s display of avaricious malice had been beyond the pale. It was as puzzling as it was infuriating.

When at last Captain Oakenshield arrived to accompany her on her rounds, she was quite high-tempered, and during their walk she recounted the entire outrage to him, keeping her voice down only out of respect for the neighbours. The episode did not make as large an impression on him, however; halfway through she noticed that he was smiling. “What?”

“You become quite red in the face when you’re angry,” he observed.

“So do you,” she pointed out. “Well, your ears do, and your nose. Your cheeks are entirely obscured by that preposterous beard, so I have no data on that front. And let me make plain,” she added, “That this is as much your fault as anyone’s.”

“My fault?” he demanded. “How does that conclusion present itself?”

“I should think it obvious,” replied Bilbo. “No matter the official story, Smaug must know, or at least have strong suspicions, of who you are and what you want, even if he does not yet know the particulars of your plot. He knows that you have secured my help in some form. And since he cannot move against you openly — nor against me — he resorts to these machinations, using the poor townsfolk as pawns.”

“If I am the cause, I ought to be the cure,” said the captain. “Perhaps I can cover the expense of those who cannot spare the cost of a subscription.”

“That is unnecessary,” Bilbo dismissed, “Since Thranduil announced he would pay—“ she stopped, and listened to what she herself had just said. For his part, the captain was muttering something about nobles with more money than mindpower; she put out her hand to bring him round to face her. “Pawns,” she repeated. “That is exactly what it reminds me of; a feint in a chess game. This whole morning I’ve been fuming at how — how _outsized_ Smaug’s greed seemed to be with this demand. But I’ve seen this manoeuvre before. The player sets out a vulnerable pawn to be annihilated, to see what the opposing player will do to capture it.”

“You think Smaug meant for me to make an offer to pay?” Captain Oakenshield said thoughtfully.

“More than half the townsfolk would require assistance even for a thruppence subscription,” Bilbo said. “Yes — you may well look pale. A man bent on regaining his family’s titles might dip deep into his own pockets to win the hearts and minds of the people; if you had made the offer, Smaug would have his answer as to who you really are. And if you did not, Lord Smaug could use that against you should you ever declare yourself. A man who wishes to rule Laketown, but will not so much as lift his finger to help them?”

“And Smaug would announce just before the ball that the subscriptions were free of charge, out of the goodness of his heart, if I declined to lift said finger,” Captain Oakenshield concluded. Bilbo nodded, and he smiled grimly. “Then I suppose I should be thankful to my lord Thranduil for upsetting the plan.”

“Perhaps,” Bilbo said, and continued down the lane.

The Captain fell into step alongside her. “Perhaps?”

“While I would never impugn the character of one so noble,” Bilbo said, “His act of generosity did seem to me to be…”

“Outsized,” the captain finished.

She nodded. “This may be a machination of Thranduil’s own devising, somehow. He seems determined to ingratiate himself to me, though goodness knows he goes about it in the oddest way. It may be that his gesture was meant to induce me to trust him.”

“To what purpose? Unless the two of them are in cahoots.”

Bilbo laughed. “Cahoots? What a wonderful word.”

The captain offered her his arm as they came to a muddy crossroads. “Do you think it possible that Smaug has disclosed his suspicions to Thranduil? They do not seem the closest of friends — but one hardly needs to be friends with a co-conspirator.”

Bilbo might have been more wounded by this remark had the captain’s arm been withdrawn at that; as it was, she retorted, “As we have ample proof. But Thranduil certainly knows _something_.” She bit her lip, then said, “I would like to ask a very impertinent question.“

“I am grateful for the warning, then.”

“Did you ever share your family history with Lord Thranduil? Amongst the _other_ things that you shared.”

The captain eyed her. “That is well _beyond_ impertinent.”

“I did say ‘very,’” she reminded him.

He did not speak further for a few paces. “I did not know my family history, back then,” he said. “I knew my father’s surname, but not its significance. When my mother’s brother-in-law took me aboard his ship, he advised me to take orders under Oakenshield rather than Durin, since the name Oakenshield was well-respected in the Navy.”

“So Thranduil did not know your father’s name.”

Captain Oakenshield snorted. “He could hardly be bothered to remember _any_ of my names.”

“True,” Bilbo said, “But if there was anything you told him—“

“He was never very interested in what I had to say,” Captain Oakenshield replied, with slight emphasis upon the final word. 

Bilbo laughed. “Yes, I can believe it. Oh, not that you are not an interesting person,” she amended, and then, noticing that his eyebrows had not descended from their raised position, continued hastily, “And not that I meant — captain, I am shocked at the very notion,” though she was still laughing.

“Yes, you seem very shocked indeed,” he muttered, adding slyly, “But of course, a lady vicar must be well-sheltered from such unseemly affairs.”

“I shall have you know, I have not lead so sheltered a life as _that_ ,” she protested.

Captain Oakenshield looked sceptical. “Laketown does not seem a particularly promising spot for unseemliness.”

“I was thirty-one when I arrived in Laketown,” she informed him, “And nearly four-and-twenty before I took a curacy. University is a place that one might have all kinds of novel experiences — every bit as unseemly as your _maiden voyage_ across the Atlantic.”

“I would like to ask a very impertinent question,” the captain said.

“Yes, I thought you would,” Bilbo said. “But alas, I see the Hardbottles’ cottage in the distance, and so can say only that I not only made the acquaintance of the Marquis d’Arlandes, I drank champagne with him. And you can infer from that what you will.”

“I can infer—“ but they were interrupted by the sound of cantering hooves, approaching rapidly from the way they had come. Bilbo turned to see a grey horse approaching them at speed, carrying a tiny figure. She stepped from the lane onto the grass, knowing full well the blindness many riders had for those on foot, and tugged at Captain Oakenshield to do the same.

He, however, had folded his arms and was standing directly in the rider’s path, legs planted as though he meant to stop the horse by sheer force of will. Bilbo had just enough time to shut her eyes — but instead she heard the hoofbeats slow, and then a woman’s voice calling out.

“ _There_ you are,” it said, sounding cheerful. Bilbo cracked open one eye; the figure on the horse was not, after all, so very small — it was the horse that seemed to diminish her, for it was easily two hands taller than Minty. As for the figure, though her voice indicated her sex, it was impossible to know anything else; she wore a riding cloak, its hood covering her face.

“Here I am,” agreed Captain Oakenshield. “The question is, what in the devil’s name are _you_ doing _there_? And on that rabid beast.”

“Jealousy is very unbecoming, Thorin,” the woman replied. “Just because I’ve been able to ride since I was six, there’s no call for you to get in a pet about my superior seat.”

“I’ve never once cared about your seat,” the captain growled.

That earned him a laugh from the rider, and she pushed back her hood, emerging from underneath it a bright-eyed, dark-haired beauty. Her sleek chignon was not the least ruffled by the ride, and her cheeks, Bilbo noted with some dismay, were not at all red. There was something familiar about her eyes, but Bilbo could not quite place it.

“I’ve been looking for you simply everywhere,” the woman said, stroking her mount’s neck absently. “The boys were entirely useless, as is to be expected. I had to resort to asking perfect strangers if they had seen a Naval man with a face like a constipated cliffside wandering about the village. Some delightful relic in a cassock mentioned that you were in the habit of following the local vicar around like a stray puppy, and a call to the Vicarage lead to the disclosure that said vicar was making her rounds along this lane. And lo and behold, here you are.”

“We’ve already established that,” retorted Captain Oakenshield. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“And you haven’t introduced me to your charming companion,” the woman replied, turning her smile on Bilbo, who was still standing in the grass. “It’s very rude,” she added in an aside to the captain, when he merely glared at her.

“Miss Baggins,” he sighed, as though accepting defeat, “Please allow me to introduce Mrs. Dís Eredson — my sister.”

“A pleasure,” Mrs. Eredson said, her eyes twinkling with all the mischief of both Fíli and Kíli combined. “And I mean that quite sincerely, Miss Baggins — for I have heard _all_ about you.”

“Have you indeed?” Bilbo said faintly. “How excellent.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning Bilbo opened her door to find Mr. Bofur, his hat already in one hand, with a letter in the other. “I’ve been given the most agreeable task of delivering this to you, Miss Baggins,” he said, offering it to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Bofur — won’t you come in?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure on this green earth,” he said, “But my list of errands doesn’t end with you, though my heart and soul may reside here on your doorstep from now until Judgement—“

“That’s quite enough of that,” Bilbo said, trying her best to sound disapproving, though in all probability her laughter ruined the effect.

“Until Sunday, Miss Baggins,” said Mr. Bofur, not in the least abashed; he made leg and was off down the pathway before she closed the door, whistling a cheerful (and no doubt ribald) tune.

> _Dear Miss Baggins,_
> 
> _I have banished my horrible relations to Weymouth; there are still a few sailors milling about, but they are easily cowed and will not make themselves a nuisance. May I prevail upon you to show kindness to a fellow female — and a possible addition to your flock, of course? I would be delighted to receive you at any time after eleven today._
> 
> _Yours most sincerely,_
> 
> _Dís Eredson_

“Are you all right, miss?” Mrs. Gamgee said, as Bilbo folded the note carefully and put it in her pocket.

“I’ve been invited to Dale Abbey by the captain’s sister.”

Mrs. Gamgee’s eyebrows went up. “Another one of them. She anything like her brother?”

“She’s rather more like a whirlwind,” Bilbo confided, and went to get her bonnet.

***

Unsurprisingly, it was Mrs. Eredson herself who opened the door when Bilbo knocked. “I’m so glad you came!” she exclaimed, drawing Bilbo in through the foyer and into the parlour. “I’m utterly surrounded by men here — excepting Mr. Nori and Mr. Bombur, naturally, whatever honourifics they use amongst their colleagues. And to be quite honest they’re just as bad. The drawing room has been taken over by a half-dozen dartboards, a billiards table, and some sort of contraption that Fíli assures me is entirely wholesome which leads me, of course, to believe that it isn’t.”

During this cheerful monologue Mrs. Eredson had deposited Bilbo in an armchair by the window, rung for a servant, and put away the embroidery she had been engaged in when Bilbo had interrupted. Bilbo’s initial impression of a whirlwind was confirmed — albeit a tidy-minded one.

Before Bilbo could formulate a reply, a dour youth of perhaps twelve or thirteen with a shock of red hair came in, bearing a ornate tea set. “Thank you, Gimli,” said Mrs. Eredson as he put it down on the table between them. “But where are the scones?” 

The boy’s expression grew even more disgruntled, and he darted out the door without a bow. Bilbo tried not to startle at the slamming of the door, and instead turned to her hostess. “I hope you have found Laketown agreeable thus far?” she ventured.

“Oh, prodigiously,” Mrs. Eredson laughed as she poured out. “One son injured, _both_ sons besotted with local girls of one sort or another, a houseful of sailors, and a brother who has apparently decided to tilt at the most fearsome windmill he can find.” She handed the cup and saucer to Bilbo. “At least he has met you, which to my way of thinking is the only salvageable part of this mess.”

“Your accounts of me may be too generous, Mrs. Eredson. I fear I bear some responsibility for—“ Bilbo paused, considering. “Well, perhaps for a bit of everything.”

“Really?” Mrs. Eredson asked. “Very interesting. But I’m inclined to dismiss those charges, given that my accounts of you are primarily from my brother, who is the most ungenerous man alive when it comes to the summation of another soul, even ones he likes well. Perhaps especially so — he first described me to the late Mr. Eredson as ‘a short shouty thing;’ heaven knows how I managed to convince the poor fellow to marry me with such an introduction as that. Besides,” she continued, blithe, “According to Kíli, _I_ am the one entirely to blame for _his_ injuries. Had I taught him to ride sidesaddle as a child, he would never have fallen off.”

“As a witness,” Bilbo said, “I cannot but feel that it was foolhardiness, not inexperience, that lead to Kíli’s accident.”

“Someone who speaks sense at last, I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Eredson cheered. “Kíli’s always been an idiot — and I say that as someone who loves her children more than anything in the world. But when I heard that he’d broken himself I was not in the least surprised. I’m only shocked he hasn’t fallen off the ship yet.”

“I am beginning to suspect,” said Bilbo, “That there is a family trait of giving harsh assessments of character.”

Mrs. Eredson smiled. “That, Miss Baggins, is a very impertinent remark, and one I like you for enormously. You’re quite right, of course; it’s the Durin legacy, I fear. We’re not inclined to think well of others, and even less inclined to think well of ourselves. But at least Kíli and Fíli have been tempered by their father’s blood.”

“They’re excellent fellows,” Bilbo assured her. “And I hope you will have a chance, while you are here, to meet these local girls — one of them is a lady of impeccable breeding, and the other my protege, so I can hope that my good opinion of her shall sway you minutely.”

“It does — besides, I’d rather meet an protege than a lady,” said Mrs. Eredson. “I find the clergy — barring you, of course — somewhat dull, but an aristocrat is guaranteed to send me to sleep.”

“I can promise you, Lady Tauriel is not likely to let you doze off.”

“Lady Tauriel Silme?” Mrs. Eredson asked, but was prevented from pressing further by the reappearance of the youth Gimli with another tray, this time carrying a plate with scones and a small pot of clotted cream. “Excellent, now go away,” Mrs. Eredson said, taking the plate and pot from him.

The young man made a disapproving noise and stomped out of the room, once again shutting the door far too loudly behind him. Some of Bilbo’s surprise at such behaviour must have shown on her face, for Mrs. Eredson smiled broadly as she placed a scone on a small plate for Bilbo.

“You must excuse Gimli,” she said, “He is Mr. Glóin’s son, and wants desperately to serve as midshipman on Thorin’s next ship; I have brought him up from London at his mother’s request, to get him off of her accounts and onto her husband’s. But it is tradition for the officers and crew of the ship to torment new recruits, and so Mr. Glóin has set his son to waiting on _me_ until Thorin decides if he’s worthy of a berth.”

“I take it he is not… naturally servile?” Bilbo said, taking the offered plate.

“He spent the entirety of the journey from London complaining about how fast I was driving the horses and asking when we would arrive at the next inn,” replied Mrs. Eredson. “But he does make excellent scones.”

Bilbo could not help but agree. “Truth to tell, I believe he is the first member of the household staff I have seen, though I have not often been here.”

“That does not surprise me.”

“Which part?” Bilbo said, encouraged by the mischievous glint in Mrs. Eredson’s eye. “The lack of observable servants, or the scarcity of my visits?”

“Both,” said Mrs. Eredson. “For your visits, even a vicar of the town would see a hopeless case for what it is, and I cannot imagine my brother knows how to make a lady comfortable, even when he is motivated to do so. As for the servants — they _are_ here, and see to the same duties they would see to if the house were unoccupied; I am led to understand that the landlord keeps on a half-dozen or so people to maintain the estate. But Thorin has hired no additional staff — and I doubt very much that he will.”

“I see,” Bilbo lied, and sipped her tea once more. 

“Thorin is entirely a revolutionary,” Mrs. Eredson continued. “We grew up in a family with few servants, a combination of my father’s late-blooming populist tendencies and the simple fact that there was never much money. So we shifted for ourselves, and were always happier doing so. So even now, living on an estate and possessing a fortune that might enable him to hire a hundred servants if he so wished, he refuses to take on so much as a valet, though this I can attribute more to his confounded independent streak than to his thoughts on the rights and dignity of mankind.”

The mention of such a sizeable fortune piqued Bilbo’s curiosity; but perhaps Mrs. Eredson was merely referring to the Erebor estate the captain wished to reclaim. So she said merely, “I do not believe we are well enough acquainted for me to heartily agree with you. No matter how sorely I may be tempted.”

Mrs. Eredson laughed, a great bubble of joy that reminded Bilbo of her sons. “I hope to one day claim such an acquaintance, Miss Baggins. But in place of your hearty agreement, I can tell you that Thorin is not _quite_ as confounded these days as he was during our childhood.”

“That is a bold statement, Mrs. Eredson. I’ve been acquainted with your brother for almost a month, remember; in that time he has proven at times quite exasperating.”

“And yet from what I can gather, he may make you an offer at any moment,” countered Mrs. Eredson. “So I shall hope there is some aspect of you that enjoys exasperation.”

“But all that is—“ Bilbo said, then stopped. She could hardly credit the idea that Captain Oakenshield’s sister was somehow not amongst his confidants; she was clearly a woman of intelligence and spirit, and moreover the quest these men were on concerned _her_ as much as any of _them._ But the captain was not there, and could give her no guidance. She tried to think of something to say.

Fortunately Mrs. Eredson had already answered for her. “Yes, I suppose it is a bit presumptuous. And goodness knows he’d be cross if he found out I said anything. But it’s rare for me to be able to play the helpful sister; he’s always been so much older than me, in spirit if not in age — we are only four and a half years apart, you see, but it might as well be four and twenty. I suppose I really am to blame for _that_ , at least in part; it was my birth that ended our mother’s life, and Thorin was more parent than eldest brother. And when the fire claimed our father’s life and poor Frerin’s — that was our middle brother — we were all that the other had.”

Bilbo sipped at her cooling tea. Mrs. Eredson spoke matter-of-factly, without self-recrimination or pity, and yet even the simple recitations of her and her brother’s childhood were heartbreaking. The Durin family had suffered much, even before Thorin took the name of Oakenshield and his sister married into the name of Eredson. “I would think that affected you both,” she observed.

Mrs. Eredson tilted her head, thoughtful. “Not equally, I believe. He had to grow up so much more quickly than I did. Our mother’s family made it impossible for him to do otherwise. They never particularly liked our father; looking back now, I suppose they found his refusal to reestablish his position infuriating. They tried to do their duty to the little orphans, but they expected biddable children who would do everything they told them to. Thorin…” she shook her head. “The only assistance he would accept was a commission on our uncle Dáin Oakenshield’s ship and a year’s boarding for me until he could afford to put me on his accounts. He paid his way and mine, and would not take a ha’penny from anyone else. Asking people — for anything — has always been abhorrent to him; perhaps that is why he is so bad at it.”

At a loss to know just how much she could disclose about her brother’s recent activities in Laketown, Bilbo cleared her throat. “Well, I’m sure he tries to improve himself.”

“Your faith does you credit, Miss Baggins,” Mrs. Eredson said. “But he _is_ a good man — has goodness in his bones. I remember once going to Lyme as a little girl; Father hated it, but he took us there every summer because Mother had loved the seaside. We were playing along the shore by ourselves — I don’t recall why Father was absent — and I hurt my ankle. Of course I cried and carried on dreadfully, and I remember Frerin’s expression of horror not at my injury but at my _noise_. A number of well-meaning people came to offer aid, but Thorin made me climb up on his back and carried me all the way back to our lodgings — three miles away. It took nearly two hours, and we were stopped several times, but Thorin would only glare and say ‘no thank you’ and we would continue on.”

“That does sound like him,” Bilbo admitted.

But Mrs. Eredson was still lost in memory. “It was good fun, in fact; Frerin pretended he was a circus conductor and I told Thorin he was a great elephant, with myself as the lovely ballerina who would pirouette on his back. Thorin played along, stomping down the streets and trumpeting and pretending the ribbon from my bonnet was his trunk.”

It was difficult in the extreme to summon the image of Thorin, however young he must have been at the time, as an imaginary elephant. “Was he similarly given to games with your children?” she asked.

“Even more so, I think,” laughed Mrs. Eredson, “For it is the way of uncles to make themselves the favourites of their nieces or nephews, since they know they can return them to the parents at their leisure. It was a relief when Fíli and Kíli took berths with him, though for the first year or so the only letters I received from them were complaints that Uncle was a great deal more strict now that he was their captain and would hardly ever give them candy.”

“Did you get any letters from your brother?”

“Oh, yes. They were, if possible, even more plaintive, and always ended with a request to send him more of the candy they liked.”

***

Bard was lying in wait for her in the parlour when she returned from Dale Abbey, looking lemon-faced. “If you’re not careful,” Bilbo advised him as she set her reticule on the desk, “The wind will change and you’ll be obliged to look like that forever.”

“No more than I deserve, I’m sure,” he said. “Sigrid wants me to invite one of those damned sailors over for dinner; if I look like a troll perhaps I’ll scare him off.”

Bilbo laughed and retrieved the chess set from the cupboard. “You do realise she’s set to leave you one way or another — university is only another year away.”

“University isn’t marriage to a _sailor_ ,” Bard grumbled, slumping into his customary armchair.

“Mr. Eredson is a very good sort, and an officer besides. Sigrid could do far worse for herself.”

“Then you approve of her getting married and living in Dover or some benighted place like that?”

Bilbo set out the pieces. “Of course — if that is what she wants.”

Bard seemed dissatisfied with that answer. “I thought you of all people would be howling over the idea. Aren’t you one of those bluestockings they warn about in the pamphlets? Freedom for all women from the shackles of matrimony?” He steepled his fingers and regarded her over them. “Or is it that captain of yours that’s wearing away at your principles?”

Moments like these made Bilbo’s stomach roil; for a moment she had forgotten, somehow, that this ruse of hers included Bard amongst its victims, unconvinced though he might seem. She could not laugh and scoff at the idea that such a man as the captain would ever wear away at anything of _hers;_ instead she must say: “Captain Oakenshield deserves far better than such an accusation. And as much as I admire Hannah More and her compatriots, _true_ freedom lies in women determining their own destinies, just as men do. Sigrid has spent the past year understanding what it means to be a woman with a profession; if she chooses love and marriage instead, at least she will not do it in ignorance.”

“I suppose there is merit in that,” sighed Bard. “But am I obliged to invite his uncle and his brother, too?”

“ _And_ his mother,” Bilbo confirmed. “She lately arrived and is staying at your Abbey for the next few weeks, I believe.”

“Good lord. We are overrun. Is the whole bloody fleet settling itself in the district? We need another war immediately.”

“Language,” Bilbo chided. “Now, black or white?”

“Black. And you’re coming, too. It will go some way toward evening the numbers — seems all the rage these days. And if I’m to play host to some elderly matron, I’d like you to suffer, too.”

“With an offer like that, I’d be a fool to resist,” said Bilbo.

***

The next few days were largely taken up with organising various aspects of the ball next week. Radagast was happy enough, when asked, to take on her duties of collection. “I really ought to make rounds more regularly at any rate,” he said. “Just the other week I found Mr. Cotton feeding his pig onions. _Onions!_ You would think a farmer would know better.”

“Shocking what people do when left unsupervised,” Bilbo agreed.

Captain Oakenshield was unflatteringly incurious as to why he was excused until the following Monday; the note she received in reply to hers read only:

> _Dear Miss Baggins,_
> 
> _I shall use the intervening time to dry out my boots. I suppose this doesn’t include a reprieve from services on Sunday or the dinner your friend is hosting on Friday?_
> 
> _—T.O._

She wrote back:

> _It most certainly doesn’t._

The rest of her time was divided between sleeping and keeping the earl’s enthusiasm in check; Thranduil seemed to have a great many ideas and very little idea of how to execute them effectively. She had to go up to Erebor herself on Friday morning to explain to him that there was no one within a hundred miles of Laketown who could carve a block of ice into interlocking swan sculptures.

“Why not?” Thranduil demanded, flinging himself into a lawn chair. “It’s as though the country conspires to make me unhappy.”  He held out a hand expectantly.

“Yes, Father,” Legolas sighed, placing in the hand a glass of wine. “Would you like me to go down to the hall and help the vicar with preparations?”

“Nonsense, you have terrible judgement,” he said. “Miss Baggins, take Tauriel with you. Perhaps she can rustle up a woodcutter who can do something intriguing. After all, I’ve already paid for the three blocks to be carted in.”

Tauriel took Bilbo down in the phaeton, and they spent the afternoon supervising the workmen hired to clean out the hall. It was a momentous task; the hall had not been used since Old Durin had been alive, and in recent years had become an ad hoc stable for those farmers grazing their herd on the Commons. Even several days into renovations, it still smelled of hay and cattle.

“I imagine you’ll be glad to go back to London after the ball,” Bilbo said, ladling out water for the workers.

Tauriel, holding the tin, looked struck by the remark. “I’m not — I mean, of course. Though it has been not so awful here as I’d thought it would be.”

“Praise indeed,” Bilbo laughed.

“I did not mean to say — that is, I’ve found there to be a great deal of…” she lapsed into silence, and Bilbo continued down the line until they finished, and only after they went back out to the well to return the unused water did she press Tauriel for a conclusion. “Oh,” Tauriel replied, “I suppose Laketown has surprised me with its — kindness.”

“Now that I will take as praise,” said Bilbo. She looped her arm through Tauriel’s and they made a slow promenade around the perimeter of the Commons, nodding to the handful of villagers making use. “I am only sorry to hear that you have lived places where it is such a rare commodity.”

“My guardian thinks kindness is terribly out of mode,” Tauriel said; her smile was not one of amusement, but of resignation. “Perhaps another reason he and your captain no longer get along.”

“You think Captain Oakenshield kind?”

“I do not think you would tie your affections to anyone who wasn’t,” answered Tauriel. “Besides, it is clear enough that he does not approve of my family, yet he permitted me to see his nephew the other day when I delivered your letter.”

“I myself would not call it kindness to foist Kíli on any unsuspecting lady,” Bilbo said. The Rectory loomed ahead, Mrs. Bree out in the garden with a basketful of roses. “But I gather you and Kíli found each others’ company agreeable?”

Tauriel made a disapproving huff, the closest a lady could probably get to a snort. “You are not terribly subtle, Miss Baggins,” she said.

“God’s thunderbolts often lack nuance, it’s true,” she allowed.

As they passed the Bowman’s cottage, Sigrid came to the window facing the lane and called, “Miss Baggins! And Lady Tauriel,” she added. The smallness of the window rendered her curtsey somewhat comical, but Bilbo was gratified to see that Tauriel only returned the salute, betraying no amusement. “I wanted to ask if I could borrow some potatoes from Mrs. Gamgee — the ones in our storeroom aren’t wholesome enough for good eating tonight.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said. “Have Tilda run over, there is more than enough. I’d go myself, but Lady Tauriel and I are very busy attending to preparations for the assembly ball next week.”

“Yes, I can see that you are,” Sigrid observed tartly, but before Bilbo could reach through the window to tug at her plaits, she addressed Bilbo’s companion. “Lady Tauriel, if you would forgive the late request, may I extend an invitation to you as well? We are having dinner here tonight, along with Captain Oakenshield and his nephews. And his sister. Their mother,” she added, sotto voce.

Lady Tauriel blanched. “Mr. Eredson’s mother?”

“And Mr. _Kíli_ Eredson’s,” Sigrid confirmed.

“Well, they are brothers,” Bilbo pointed out cheerfully, taking delight in the dawning horror on Tauriel’s face and the resigned terror on Sigrid’s. Tonight was looking very promising. “It stands to reason the mother of one is the mother of the other, doesn’t it?”

Tauriel gave her a look that was not altogether ladylike, but turned to Sigrid and said, “I’d be most delighted to accept, Miss Bowman — thank you very kindly.”

“You’re quite welcome, Lady Tauriel. You’ll make for an even table.”

This time Bilbo _did_ reach through the window to tug at Sigrid’s braid. “‘An even table?’ Sigrid, _honestly_.”

“Oh, that isn’t the only reason,” Sigrid said, smiling slyly. “When I went to the Abbey yesterday to invite them, Mr. Kíli was _most_ disappointed that Lady Tauriel wasn’t to be in attendance.”

“That’s beyond enough,” Bilbo announced, and dragged Lady Tauriel away. “We shall see you at seven tonight, and between now and then I hope you learn some tact, Miss Bowman.”

“From whom should I learn it, Miss Baggins?” called Sigrid, before they turned a corner and the cottage was out of sight.

Only then did Tauriel let loose a peal of laughter that startled a dozen swallows out of a nearby rosebush.

***

The shadows were beginning to stretch out to the east by the time the workmen had finished for the day; Bilbo and Tauriel stopped at the Vicarage to ensure that the Gamgees were not put out by stabling Tauriel’s horses for another few hours. “Oh, they don’t bother,” Roper said comfortably, leaning in the doorframe of his cottage. “They’re keeping company with Minty in the field, but I’ll be sure to have them harnessed by half ten or so. Shall I bring them ‘round to the Bowmans’?”

“No need, the walk back here will do us good,” Bilbo assured him.

“Miss Tilda took twenty pounds of potatoes with her,” Roper said, his tone a warning. “I think you’ll need more than a quarter-mile to digest _that_.”

“Thank you for your trouble, Mr. Gamgee,” said Tauriel, handing him a crown. Bilbo bit the inside of her cheek as Roper peered at the coin, then up at Tauriel.

“It’s not a _trouble_ , Miss,” he said, uncertain. “Certainly not a half quid’s worth of trouble. But I’ll take this on account, and you can be free to bring ‘round that dogcart of yours any time.” And with that, he bid them a good evening and shut the door firmly in their faces.

“Yes, I can see what you mean about our infamous kindness,” Bilbo said as they made their way back up the path.

“Did I offend him?” Tauriel asked.

“You did,” Bilbo answered, “But he’ll get over it. The Gamgees are accustomed to doing favours for _me_ , you understand, and I only pay them in gratitude and tenancy. And gossip.”

“Then they have no money?” Tauriel asked. “How do they buy things?”

“I see you and Captain Oakenshield will have something to discuss over dinner,” Bilbo said.

They arrived unfashionably early, but Bard let them in with only minimal complaint. “I believe I’m supposed to offer sherry before the meal,” he said, leading them into the sitting room. “That’s what refined ladies drink, is it not?”

“Father, stop being horrid,” Sigrid advised from the doorway. She still wore her apron and there was flour on her cheek. “Thank you so much for coming, Lady Tauriel. And Miss Baggins,” she added with a smile. “I hope you’ll be able to tolerate the company of my father for another few minutes; the other guests are not set to arrive until seven.”

“No matter,” Bilbo said. “We’ll manage somehow.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Tauriel said, to the great surprise of everyone present. She seemed to notice, and falter. “I — am afraid I am not very well acquainted with matters of cooking. But I was considered something of a prodigy when it came to peeling potatoes when I was a girl. You mentioned needing some from Miss Baggins’s pantry.”

“In our house, peeling potatoes is a punishment,” Sigrid laughed.

“Oh, in ours as well,” said Tauriel. “Which is how I became so proficient.”

This made Bard grin. “I would not have plucked you as an errant child,” he said.

“Oh, I was dreadful,” Tauriel assured him. “But I could finish off four potatoes before the egg timer went.”

And so instead of idle chatter in the sitting room, they took themselves off to the kitchen, where Bain and Tilda were fighting over how much cream to add to the soup. Sigrid took the wooden spoon away from Tilda and banished her and her brother upstairs. “I’ll bring up something for you in a bit,” she instructed, “But you’re not to bother us at dinner.”

Bain took it with good grace — in truth, Bilbo suspected he was more relieved than disappointed — but Tilda, as ever, took it as a personal affront. It was only when Tauriel offered to be the one to bring up the dinner that she retired, appeased.

“You’re asking for trouble,” Bard said. “She’ll keep you up there asking for stories or songs until past midnight.”

“I’m afraid I do not sing at all well, so she’ll have to be content with my stories,” Tauriel said, unconcerned. “Now, where are the potatoes?”

There were no potatoes left to peel, all of them safely boiling already; but Sigrid did not balk at setting Tauriel to work chopping various vegetables while Bilbo and Bard were relegated to supervising the pots. “We could do something more useful,” Bilbo pointed out, stirring the stew occasionally.

“No, we couldn’t,” Bard contradicted, poking at the potatoes. “This is exactly the level of responsibility suited to both of us, and you know it.”

Neither Sigrid nor Tauriel seemed to hear; they were laughing over something or other, their heads bent over their tasks at the other end of the long table. Bilbo watched them: Sigrid instructing, Tauriel hesitant at first but gaining confidence. From what she could hear of the conversation, they had both recently finished _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ and had found it equally mesmerising. They were not terribly far apart in age, though perhaps either girl might disagree — four years were a greater span between girls of sixteen and twenty than between women of thirty-six and forty. But there was still the easy rapport between them that spoke of a friendship that might form, given opportunity. Bilbo thought that of all the new acquaintances made in the past month, she was most glad to have seen this one.

“A pretty picture, to be sure,” Bard whispered. “Never thought I’d see a lady cutting up parsnips in my kitchen.”

“Sigrid is just as much a woman of quality as Lady Tauriel,” Bilbo whispered back.

“She’s hardly a gentleman’s daughter,” Bard said, still quiet; but when Bilbo glanced up at him, he seemed unworried. “So perhaps that makes the acquaintance all the better for her.”

“It’s good for them both,” Bilbo said. “I do not believe Lady Tauriel has had many friends. Still fewer,” she added, as Tauriel said something that made Sigrid throw a parsnip top at her, “Who would do _that._ ”

“You don’t think Lord Legolas pelts her with vegetables to indicate his fondness?” Bard asked, wide-eyed. 

Bilbo made free to nudge him in the side, which prompted him to hit her with a kitchen rag. Of course this meant she was obliged to try and tuck an onion skin into his collar, resulting in his howling in protest. This brought over the girls, but rather than defending Bard they saw fit to attack them both, which resulted in Bilbo landing a palpable hit on Sigrid’s apron with some sauce cooling on the table and Tauriel smearing butter onto Bard’s waistcoat. 

“Ungrateful youths!” he declared, and it devolved from that point. 

No one noticed anything until a “halloo” was heard in the passageway. Bilbo, by this time fending off Bard’s attempts to put potato peels in her hair, didn’t have more than a moment before the kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Eredson looked in.

“Oh!” she said, eyebrows raised. “I believe I’ve found them.”

Bilbo could hear boots and men’s voices on the other side of the door, and really, this was no more than she deserved. Captain Oakenshield’s head appeared over his sister’s, and he took in the scene with the perfect placidity that Bilbo knew by now meant he was laughing at her. “I believe you have,” he said. “Though in what state, I’m not sure I’d venture to guess.”

The only way out, as her mother had often told her, was through, so Bilbo said, “Mrs. Eredson, may I present Lady Tauriel Silme, your host Mr. Bowman, and Miss Bowman. If Mr. Bowman would excuse me, I shall lead the rest of the guests into the sitting room?” she added, turning to Bard who was surreptitiously wiping off his waistcoat.

“By no means,” said Mrs. Eredson dismissively; she came into the kitchen and deposited herself on a stool. “All the fun is being had here.”

Captain Oakenshield followed her in, with Fíli and Kíli trailing after. Bilbo glanced over at Tauriel and Sigrid, who had suffered the worst of Bard’s salvos, but they seemed determined to carry on regardless, and executed demure curtseys at odds with the foodstuffs in their hair as Bilbo made introductions.

“A pleasure, madam,” said Sigrid, while Tauriel said, “Good evening, madam.” Both looked mortified to have spoken over the other. Fíli and Kíli, for their part, seemed too distracted by admiration to take note.

“Well, I know now that you are both well-mannered as well as industrious,” Mrs. Eredson said, removing her gloves, “And not excessively serious — though I never held _that_ fear particularly close to my heart, given your admirers. Lady Tauriel, you will not recall, but we met once before, when you were presented at Court. Your guardian held an impromptu drinking contest with the Prince Regent.”

“An evening I have tried my best to forget, madam,” said Tauriel, “But in fact I do remember you. You were uncommonly gracious when Lord Thranduil stepped on your shoes during the scotch reel.”

“I defy even the soberest of dancers to execute that dance with toes untrod,” Mrs. Eredson replied. “But yes, I can say without reserve that I approve of both of you, provisionally — Lady Tauriel for your memory, and Miss Bowman for the excellent smell emanating from that stove.” She turned her gaze toward Bard, whom Bilbo had tried to make somewhat presentable during the interval. “Which leaves Mr. Bowman for me to approve of.”

“I submit myself to your judgement, Mrs. Eredson,” Bard said with a bow. “But I’m afraid the best reference of character I can provide is my eldest daughter, who may not provide reference at the moment. It was I who put that gravy in her hair.”

“And for your wit, I’ll approve of you, too,” Mrs. Eredson said.

Captain Oakenshield came over to where Bilbo had stationed herself in the corner, as Bard and Mrs. Eredson spoke further and Kíli and Fíli put themselves at the disposal of Lady Tauriel and Sigrid. “Should I ask why it is you have some sort of pudding on your face?” he asked.

“Drat,” she muttered, and went for her handkerchief. The captain, however, was quicker.

“There,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “Once again the picture of ecclesiastical propriety.”

Bilbo cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Thank you, Captain.”

“My pleasure, Miss Baggins.”

She scowled at him. There were any manner of things she wanted to demand of him; why his sister seemed under the impression that their courtship was legitimate, why he had wanted to be excused from this evening, why he was smiling at her like that. “Mr. Bowman,” she said instead, turning to where Bard had sat down on the stool next to Mrs. Eredson and was engaged in recounting the story about the goats, if his hand gestures were any indication, “Since none of your guests are in any way proper, shall I fetch the sherry and bring it down to the kitchen, and we can gather here for our assemblage?”

“I can do it,” Sigrid offered quickly, followed by Fíli’s selfless offer to act as chaperone.

“No, you can’t,” Bard said heavily. “But Miss Baggins, if you would be so kind, it would be appreciated. You know where the glasses are.”

“Allow me to accompany you?” Captain Oakenshield offered, just as Mrs. Eredson said, “Really, Mr. Bowman, a few minutes alone in a hallway won’t scandalise us. After all, my brother’s going with the vicar and I’m sure they’ll be quick, at least.”

Bilbo escaped before any more on the subject was uttered, the captain at her heels. Once they were out of hearing, she hissed, “What do you mean by not making your sister part of your plans?”

Captain Oakenshield frowned at her. “What do _I_ mean? I could as you the same question.”

“I had tea with her the other day, at _her_ invitation, and it was clear she had no idea of our arrangement — she said you were going to propose any day!”

This seemed not to surprise so much as irritate him. “Of course she did. My sister, you will soon learn, Miss Baggins, is not a woman whose comments are always to be relied upon.”

“She seemed perfectly reliable to me, aside from that detail,” Bilbo pressed. “And while I can see why you don’t trust me—“ the captain opened his mouth, and Bilbo held up a hand to forestall him. “—And don’t trot out some nonsense about how you do, please — I can’t understand how you wouldn’t trust your own flesh and blood. Surely Erebor is as much her home as yours.”

“It is,” he said, so gravely she suspected he was laughing at her. “But to the other charge — I _do_ trust you, Miss Baggins.”

Bilbo could feel her teeth ache from how hard she was clenching them. Men were all, as a species, utterly impossible. “Then answer my question, captain. Why doesn’t she know the truth?”

This at least made him scowl, which was far preferable to the odd expression he’d had just now. “My sister is as far into my confidence as is wise. More than that I am not able to say.”

Bilbo spun on her heel and continued on to the sitting room. “If you step any further on my nerves this evening, Captain Oakenshield,” she vowed, as he followed her down the hall, “I will apply to the archbishop to have the Anglican church reinstate excommunications, solely so I can do it to you.”

***

Once the dinner was ready, Tauriel was sent to fulfil her promise to Tilda. Kíli accompanied her, with his mother’s blessing. Bard made a noncommittal noise behind his sherry glass as they left. “Unlike you, Mr. Bowman,” said Mrs. Eredson, “I’m a great believer in the power of a few minutes in a hallway.”

Sigrid and Fíli, busy carrying the food out to the adjoining dining room, were fortunate not to hear that. “It’s not lack of belief in them that has me cautious, Mrs. Eredson,” said Bard. 

“I’ll be extremely magnanimous and choose not to be offended by the implication,” she replied, though she did so with a smile. Bard raised his glass to her.

They returned in short order, though Bilbo was wise enough in the ways of the world to notice a slight flush in Kíli’s cheek and a gleam in Tauriel’s eye that indicated at least _some_ use had been made of their time alone. But Tauriel said only, “We were delayed somewhat by Tilda’s insistence on a story, but Mr. Kíli had a splendid tale about his brother beheading three pirates with one swing of his scimitar during a battle on the high seas, and she released us.”

They proceeded into the dining room in no particular order; Bilbo smiled to see Sigrid hesitate over sitting at the head of the table. At last she did so, and although the captain rather obliviously took the seat to her right, Fíli was quick to take the seat to her left. Bilbo surrendered her place of honour to Mrs. Eredson; with Kíli and Tauriel immediately to Bard’s left, Bilbo felt the peculiar satisfaction of one who has rolled an excellent set of dice.

“Very impressive,” Mrs. Eredson murmured as Bard carved the roast. “Though you are not quite as advantageously situated.”

“I’ve not the faintest idea what you mean,” Bilbo said, and Mrs. Eredson laughed.

Conversation was as free as it could be, under the circumstances; the long acquaintance and familiarity amongst some of the party was countered by the newness of acquaintance amongst others. Still more pressing was the compulsion amongst several members to please others, with various degrees of success. Mrs. Eredson seemed to estimate Tauriel quite highly — not for her rank, but for her correct opinions of all the same people with whom Mrs. Eredson was also acquainted. Being the ward of Lord Thranduil of Mirkwood brought with it many opportunities to witness scandals without the inconvenience of taking part in them, and so Tauriel was able to assure Mrs. Eredson that her dislike of this baronet or that gentleman was wholly justified. Sigrid had less good fortune in that regard; despite Fíli’s admiration for everything from the roast to the potatoes to the parsnips, she was clearly not at her ease as the hostess to her suitor’s mother. 

Mrs. Eredson, for her part, did little to _put_ her at ease. “I understand, Miss Bowman, that you intend to apply for a formal education,” she said as Fíli and Bilbo were doing their part to shuttle the dishes to the kitchen — Bilbo through long acquaintance, and Fíli, she suspected, through a desire to ingratiate.

“Yes,” whispered Sigrid, then cleared her throat and repeated, “Yes, I wish to study theology at Oxford.”

“And from then on, what are your wishes? Theology is all well and good — we must all be mindful of how mysteriously God works with those wonders of His to perform — but what will you do after your schooling concludes?”

Sigrid seemed to shrink at this question. “Mr. Bowman and I think she would do great things in the Church,” Bilbo answered for her. “If that is what she decides.”

“Oh, undoubtedly she would do great things anywhere,” Mrs. Eredson said, appraising Sigrid.

Sigrid blushed, staring down at her glass. “Thank you, madam,” she said, almost too softly to hear. “But my place is the Church.”

“That is very… commendable,” Mrs. Eredson said dubiously.

Bilbo had by this time piled the dishes in her arms so high that she could not delay in taking them into the kitchen. There she found Fíli, standing near the doorway trying to listen.

“For a man who beheaded three pirates in one swing,” she informed him, “You, Mr. Fíli Eredson, are a coward.”

“Mercy from the judge,” he said, his hands raised in supplication. “But my mother’s a more fearsome opponent than any Frenchie pirate.”

There was no counter to that — it was altogether true. Bilbo gave him the dishes and went back into the dining room in time to hear Sigrid say, “—and I don’t think a woman should have to choose between her heart and her soul.”

“Of a certainty she _shouldn’t_ ,” agreed Mrs. Eredson. “But so often she _does_ , would you not agree? Your Miss Baggins, for example. Suppose someone made her an offer, such as… oh, perhaps your father.”

“There seems quite the conspiracy to trick us into wedlock, Miss Baggins,” Bard said comfortably, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Perhaps we should get married after all. Would you do me the honour?”

“I’m inclined to say yes, just to watch you choke,” Bilbo said, putting her hands on her hips.

Bard laughed. “Then I thank God for small mercies, Miss Baggins. If you had done so, _I_ would have done so.” He turned to Mrs. Eredson. “I think you can safely leave me out of your hypotheticals; Miss Baggins and I like each other far too well to ever fall in love.”

“Very well, I shall leave you out of all matrimonial plans,” Mrs. Eredson said.

“So you get a reprieve, but I do not?” Bilbo demanded as she gathered the last of the plates. “I find this very unfair — I’ve been saddled with a prospective husband only to have him whisked away on the grounds that he thinks me too likeable.”

“The solution, it seems,” interjected Captain Oakenshield, “Is to find a man who likes you less than Mr. Bowman. Someone more particular, perhaps.”

“And for that,” Bilbo said, placing the stack in front of the captain, “ _You_ can be more particular in the kitchen with your nephew. And _you_ ,” she said, fixing Bard with a gimlet eye, “Can go and help. Kíli, you go too — I think we’ve had altogether enough of the men for one evening. We ladies shall sit here and enjoy some port, while you fellows can retire to the sitting room and await us there.”

“I don’t believe we have any port,” Sigrid whispered to her as the men departed with the remainder of the dishes.

“I’m certain we won’t need it,” Bilbo whispered back. “Conversation is likely to be quite interesting enough.”

Sure enough, Mrs. Eredson soon returned to her question of matrimony and professions in the fairer sex. “I am simply curious about these plans of yours, Miss Bowman. It does seem that a life committed to the Church means exactly that — a commitment. One that could hardly have room for other things. Such as marriage and family.”

“Miss Baggins believes that a woman’s heart can make room for both,” Sigrid said quietly.

“I wasn’t quite so poetic as that,” Bilbo said, as Mrs. Eredson turned her gaze on her. “But I do agree with my protege that perhaps the choice is not quite so easy as one or the other.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Mrs. Eredson. “But if you _were_ made an offer in earnest — if you had let affections grow in such away that made an offer possible — do you not think you had already made a choice, Miss Baggins?”

Bilbo disliked the bent of the conversation; still, she wanted to answer and was on the verge of doing so when at last Sigrid spoke up. 

“I would think that it was _her_ choice, Mrs. Eredson,” she said, her chin held high. “Not mine. Or yours,” she added.

“Shall we join the gentlemen?” Tauriel said.

But whatever explosion Tauriel thought to defer did not come; instead Mrs. Eredson beamed approvingly. “That is most excellently put, Miss Bowman. And I am glad we agree on Miss Baggins’s fate — whatever she may decide, it shall be entirely up to her and no one else.” She turned to Bilbo. “An enormous responsibility, is it not, Miss Baggins?”

Bilbo shot to her feet. “I agree! Let us all adjourn.”

The men had not yet finished in the kitchen; the three officers were at the sinks and table washing up, while Bard was seated on a nearby stool, smoking a thoughtful pipe.

“Father,” Sigrid said reprovingly.

“It’s after dinner and I am next to a window,” Bard pointed out. “Besides, I couldn’t leave our guests to do all the work, could I?”

“No indeed,” agreed Sigrid with a sigh, and went over to aid Fíli in wiping dry the plates and bowls prior to storage.

Bilbo regarded Bard. “And what work, might I ask, are you doing right now?”

“Supervising,” he said easily. “These naval men are far too efficient for _me_ to get in the way; far better that I should admire from afar, and make sure they don’t slip any teaspoons into their pockets.”

“If they did, you’d hardly notice,” Bilbo said, watching as the captain finished the last of the pots and folded the towel with military precision over the lip. He caught her watching and made a slight, yet clearly impertinent, bow.

“It’s the threat of observation, not its efficacy, that’s important,” said Bard, standing up and offering his elbow. “Now, let us leave the putting away for tomorrow, to give my youngest children something to occupy themselves with, and have some more of that excellent conversation — and wine.”

***

Having passed some sort of maternal gauntlet, Sigrid was invited to sit with Mrs. Eredson on the divan, while Kíli and Tauriel were permitted two chairs by the fire to themselves. Fíli drew up a chair to sit beside Sigrid — to bolster her nerves or his own, Bilbo could not guess — which left Bilbo to sit on the sofa opposite. The captain and Bard stood, handing out drinks.

Conversation was more comfortable now, and enjoyable; jokes that had become second nature to some were shared and refreshed in the telling, and stories that held little interest for the participants at the time were marvelled over by new listeners. “Did you _really_ behead three pirates with one swing of your sword?” Sigrid asked. 

Fíli affected a studious nonchalance and would say only that it was his duty to serve king and country, and sometimes that involved beheadings. “But that’s nothing compared to what my mother did,” he said.

“You were there?” Sigrid gasped.

“Mrs. Eredson, you grow more terrifying by the moment” said Bard, pulling up his chair by the desk to sit down. “Please do tell.”

“Oh, it’s hardly worth mentioning, really,” said Mrs. Eredson airily.

“You were _kidnapped_ ,” Fíli disagreed. “By _pirates_.”

“I wasn’t _kidnapped_ ,” she said, then sighed. “I suppose I’d best explain. About five years ago I booked passage aboard the _Valiant_ , a rather bright little clipper bound for Porto — I was meeting my dear brother and my errant sons, who were on one of the ships holding the city after Wellesley’s rather brilliant action in May of the year ’09. My ship was captured by some rather unscrupulous gentlemen of a nautical persuasion.”

“Pirates,” Fíli clarified.

“They hardly flew a Jolly Roger, my dear. They were privateers, in the employ of the French but not, obviously, under their flag. But they were not at all savoury. Save perhaps for their leader,” she amended. “Captain Henri Azog.” She pronounced “captain” in the French manner, and her expression grew nostalgic. “He was _quite_ the gentleman.”

“The captain of the _White Warg_?” Sigrid asked, breathless.

“Yes, that’s him,” said Mrs. Eredson, gratified. “Do you know him?”

“We get the _Courier & Argus_ sometimes, and a year ago the entire front page was an advertisement for information on his whereabouts. It had a likeness of him and everything.”

“How wonderful! I wish I could see it; though I’m sure it didn’t do him justice.”

“Oh, my brother keeps all the clippings and papers he finds about pirates,” Sigrid assured her. “It’s in his book, probably, over there on the shelf.”

Bilbo, who had seen Bain’s book many times before, rose and fetched it. The clippings were glued to each page in turn and neatly arranged by date; those too large to fit had been carefully folded between pages. “A year ago?” she asked Sigrid, who nodded. Sure enough, under “April 1813” was a folded bit of newsprint. Bilbo handed it to Mrs. Eredson, who unfolded it and held it flat on her lap for examination.

The picture was more in caricature than in likeness; yet even so, there was something about the face that was compelling. He was not handsome, at least not in the picture, and a scar above his right brow gave him the obligatory piratical look. But the strong jaw and chin seemed oddly heroic and his dark hair had the tousled look of a rake; his eyes were more sparkling than sinister. “He seems quite rugged,” she said. 

Sigrid craned her neck to better examine the picture. “And very fierce,” she added. “Was he a blackhearted villain, like the paper said?”

“Oh, he was,” Mrs. Eredson sighed. “Although as I suspected, the picture hardly does him justice. And only five hundred pounds as reward? Shockingly low. He’d be furious, I’m sure. At any rate,” she continued, refolding the clipping, “He was set to put me in the brig to be dumped at the nearest shoreline along with the rest of my crew, but I convinced him I was worth a fortune in ransom. I promised him a thousand guineas from my brother, a nobleman staying in Porto.” She looked very pleased. “I managed to persuade him my brother would only believe it to be genuine if my maid was the one to deliver the letter, which got her safely away. I am quite proud of that.”

“And so instead of a nice rest in Portugal, we had to sail into a high storm and fetch her back,” interjected Fíli.

“Nonsense, I could have managed the entire thing myself,” Mrs. Eredson scoffed. “I just needed a distraction, and the _Longbeard_ opening fire on Captain Azog’s ships provided it in spades. I’d already stolen the brig key, so once the pirates were occupied, I slipped down to release my fellow prisoners. Unfortunately Captain Azog caught wind of my plan somehow and followed me down, so I did the only thing I could under the circumstances.”

“You called for help?” Bard ventured.

“I stabbed him in the arm.” Mrs. Eredson took a sip of her drink. “After that, the battle really was quite the commonplace. Aside from Fíli’s beheading of three pirates, of course. My brother and sons played hero quite admirably.”

“Then how did Captain Azog escape?” Bard asked.

“With the devil’s own — that is, with a good deal of luck,” said Fíli. “We’d killed or captured most of his men, but we were trying to reclaim the _Valiant_ and find Mother, not board the _Warg_. Azog scuttled back to his ship and made off before we could come about properly, and since we had what we had come for, we did not pursue.”

“That, and we were already cutting our orders close,” admitted the captain. “The port admiral had allowed us to go, but on the understanding that we would come back after a week. We were gone nearly two, hunting the coast for her.”

“You got a commendation and a handsome reward from the _Valiant_ ’s owner, so stop complaining,” Mrs. Eredson chided.

After that, the group fell to discussing other clippings in Bain’s book, and Bilbo wandered away toward the window seat to lean against the cool glass, closing her eyes for a moment against the susurrus of voices around her. When she opened them, she found Captain Oakenshield standing in front of her, his expression one of inquiry. “Yes?” she said.

He seemed poised to ask a question, then changed his mind and said, “I wondered whether I might join you.”

She was about to make room it when a thought occurred to her, and she held up her hand. “On one condition,” she said, “That you honour your deal from the other day. What called you away Monday morning?”

“I was attempting to hold back the sea with a bucket and spade,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at his sister. “Dís had sent me a badly-written note ordering me to buy various things she would need for her visit, which was her way of informing me that she was coming. I send someone to intercept her, either in London or en route if she had already left. Failing that,” he concluded, making a face, “I went to Keswick to retrieve the required supplies, in case she eluded my messenger.”

“So this visit was not _entirely_ a surprise,” she said, moving over as much as the small bench would allow.

“My sister has never been a surprise as much as a shock,” he said, taking his seat.

It was strange to sit as near to him as this; the only men who took that liberty were Gandalf and Bard, and if the captain had been either of those fellows, she would not have hesitated to elbow him in the side. But the captain was not either of those fellows, and so she said, “She’s lively, perhaps. But she loves you very dearly.”

“And I her,” said the captain, unembarrassed. “I am simply — uneasy, I suppose. Her being here is dangerous, to herself most of all.”

“So she _does_ know of your plans?”

“I wish you would not parse my statements with such insight,” the captain complained, smiling at her. “It is very disheartening to be known so well by a woman I can hardly puzzle out at all.”

Bilbo frowned. “There is nothing whatsoever puzzling about me.”

“On the contrary. A young woman from _____shire, who comes hundreds of miles to live under the patronage of her greatest enemy; who fights each injustice he inflicts upon others without ever raising her voice; who lives for everyone else in her care and never gives a thought to herself. You are more myth than mortal, Miss Baggins.”

She lifted her brows, and glanced over to where Sigrid, Fíli, Bard, and Mrs. Eredson were all wholly absorbed amongst themselves. “No one can hear you,” she pointed out, “Nor would they likely take any interest in your flattery if they could. So you needn’t bother just now.”

“Bother — ah,” he interrupted himself. “You think I’m putting on a show for your friends.”

“That,” she agreed, “Or you are more jug-bitten than I thought.”

The captain considered the alternatives. “Our host did pass about some rum in the kitchen,” he confessed. “But I’m sure the walk back to the Abbey will clear my head. And that is not to the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point?” Bilbo asked. She was tired, suddenly; the day and the strain and the hour seemed to pile up behind her eyes, prickling them. She wished she could close them again — she wanted to sleep for a hundred years.

“You are more than usually irritated with me, I see,” observed the captain. “Or are you, too, half-sprung?”

She had to smile at that. “I have drunk no more than a glass all night,” she said. “ _Someone_ had to supervise this menagerie. No, I—“ She laced her fingers together in her lap and sought for the right words. “I simply wish you would not pay me compliments when no one can hear them. This charade is already confusing — the sooner it is over, the better.”

“You want our pretend courtship to end?” he asked. “Or is it the pretending itself that you speak of?”

Bilbo had not expected _that_ ; such a question! “I want the deception to end,” she answered finally. “In all its forms.”

“An admirable desire,” he said, his hand covering hers, stilling them. “And when this _is_ over, and I have regained my home—“

“ _If_ you regain your home,” she corrected. His hand was very warm; she had not thought herself so chilled.

“Very well,” he huffed, “You may have your _if._ What then, Miss Baggins?”

“Then — you will have a vicar whom you have seen in her dressing gown, which will be very awkward, but I daresay we shall rise above,” she said briskly, pulling her hands out from under his.

He withdrew, but he was still far too close. “That is not what I meant.”

“Then please, say what you _do_ mean. I would exchange all the pretty words in the world for a chance at honesty again.” She looked around the room. “Goodness knows I have not been afforded much of it lately.”

“I am sorry,” said the captain. “It cannot be easy to deceive friends and loved ones.”

“It is,” she agreed. “Still harder to deceive oneself.”

“And what lies have you been telling yourself, Miss Baggins?” he asked, very softly. 

She could not answer that, and so turned to look out the window. The pane reflected the fire in the room, but beyond she could see the lane, and the spire of the Laketown church, and in the far distance, the rising full moon. She thought of the Gamgees, waiting for their return, and of Gandalf, alone in his echoing Rectory. She thought of the hundreds of men and women and children who lived beyond the scope of her vision yet who were still hers to care for, to live for.

He touched her chin with a gentle finger, pulling away when she startled. “I would ask you—“

Whatever he was about to say was lost, however, for at that moment Bard shouted something and sprang from his chair, knocking it over with a clatter.

“Bard, whatever is the matter?” Bilbo said, for he was staring at both Mrs. Eredson and the captain with an expression of horror.

“Your name,” he said. “It’s—“

“Durin, as I said,” replied Mrs. Eredson, looking somewhat surprised but wholly unalarmed. “Oakenshield was my mother’s name — Thorin took it when he went to sea. We’re the only living descendants of the old baron, apparently.” She seemed to notice the utter silence of the room for the first time, and blinked. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve said something I oughtn’t.”


	10. Chapter 10

Bard answered Mrs. Eredson’s comment with a harsh laugh. “You might say you have, madam.”

“I’d no idea it was something to hide,” she said, looking more and more distressed. “Oh dear, have I ruined things very badly?”

“Mother—“ Fíli stopped, but it was too late; Bard heard the caution in his voice as well as Bilbo had, and interpreted its meaning all too quickly.

“‘Ruined things’?” he repeated, turning from Fíli to Captain Oakenshield. “What things? No — I can guess.” His fists were held rigid at his sides, as though willing himself not to land a blow on the captain’s face. “So. You are Thorin Durin.”

“Yes,” said the Captain, rising to his feet. “That is my given name.”

“And what else do you think you’ll be given,” asked Bard, “With a name like that?”

“I don’t expect to be _given_ anything,” replied Captain Oakenshield. “But I have returned with the intention to take back my family’s birthright.”

Bard laughed again — an ugly thing. “Just like that, my lord? I don’t think you’ll find it quite so easy.” His gaze fell on Bilbo; it felt like a watchman’s lamp shone in her face. “ _You_ are not surprised. You knew all along what he was, didn’t you.”

“Yes.” There was no other answer to give. She had wished just a few moments ago for an end to the deception; but looking at Bard now, she wanted nothing more than to lie. “I’ve known since the evening he arrived.”

“And who else was so entrusted?” Bard asked, turning to examine each silent listener in turn. “My daughter? The honourable Lady Tauriel? Was I the only fool here tonight?”

“You’re not a fool, Bard — this confidence was shared amongst the captain and his crew and myself. And Gandalf,” she added.

“Of course,” Bard said, “And Gandalf. How obvious in hindsight. No doubt he played his part in concocting this scheme — but you, Bilbo? What madness compelled you to agree to this? To help some idiot knight-errant get himself killed, along with anyone else stupid enough to go along?”

“I would ask you to consider your words more carefully, Mr. Bowman,” Captain Oakenshield warned. “For all that we are guests in your house.”

“Yes, I suppose I should show proper deference,” Bard replied, with a mocking bow. “The Lord of silver fountains, come back into his own. But there’s a slight problem with your prophetic, prodigal return, _my lord_. Smaug is not a man who will go gently; he has us in his grasp and he will not relinquish his hold for anything. Certainly not for _you_.”

Not one word was uttered against him. Bilbo looked over at the fire, where Tauriel and Kíli still sat in frozen surprise. His expression was one of fear; hers was carefully serene, though her hand held his tightly.

“But of course,” Bard said, answering himself, “If you were fool enough to think he would, you’d never have come here in secret. You must have been told what Smaug was like — what he’s done to people who have opposed him in far humbler ways. How much more did you know about us, before you decided to reclaim your family’s seat as though it were a lost umbrella?”

Bilbo stepped forward, into his path. “Bard, it isn’t like that—“

“No?” he said. “Then what, pray tell, is it like?” He shook his head, disgusted. “You come to this town, into our homes, and all along you have been playing with us like pieces on a board.”

It was as though he had slapped her. “Are you speaking to the captain… or to me?”

His glare was answer enough.

But before he could reply, Mrs. Eredson got to her feet, her sons and Tauriel following suit. “I think it might be best if we bid you farewell for the evening, Miss Bowman, Mr. Bowman,” she said, speaking very quickly. “And Miss Baggins, I understand that Lady Tauriel’s horses are stabled at the Vicarage, if you would be so kind as to escort her there? It is dreadfully late, we’ve all lost track of the time, don’t you agree? Thank you so much for your hospitality, but we really must be going.”

Bilbo found herself herded out to the foyer and wrapped in her shawl by helpful hands. She looked back into the sitting room to see Bard, watching them all with his fists clenched; Sigrid was still seated at the divan, her brother’s book in her lap, her face pale as the rising moon.

***

All three men expressed their intention to walk back to the Vicarage, and it took the combined refusal of all three ladies to dissuade them. “I have walked these streets at a later hour than this, and no harm has ever come to me,” Bilbo said. “I shall be perfectly all right.”

“And I shall be with her, therefore I too shall be perfectly all right,” said Tauriel, looping her arm through Bilbo’s.

“There, they’ve said they’d be perfectly all right, and it’s ungentlemanly to doubt a lady’s word,” said Mrs. Eredson. “Besides, the Abbey is in clear the other direction, and I can tell Thorin wants very much to shout at me for an extended period of time, which he can hardly do in front of company. So I’ll say good night to both of you, and extend my hearty apologies for the, er, unfortunate turn of the evening. I feel I bear a degree of responsibility.”

“A degree—“ began Captain Oakenshield, but controlled himself. He bowed to Tauriel instead and said, “My lady, I should not presume on so slim an acquaintance, but I would ask that the revelations of this evening be kept confidential. Your host would not be best pleased to learn of who I am.”

“I give you my word, Captain Oakenshield,” Tauriel replied gravely.

“Thank you. And Miss Baggins, I hope I may call upon you tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid I will have a good deal to do tomorrow and Sunday,” she said, then faltered, slowly realising, “For… I fear I may have just lost my protege.”

There was an awkward silence, which Mrs. Eredson ended by declaring herself already chilled and admonishing her relations to make good time back to the Abbey. “Good evening to you both,” she said to Bilbo and Tauriel, “And thank you for a very interesting evening.”

The two groups thus divided, Bilbo took charge of Tauriel and lead the way back to the Vicarage. The crickets had long stopped, so it was only the occasional hoot of an owl that broke the quiet. After a while, Bilbo said, “How long have you known?”

Tauriel did not pretend to misunderstand. “Since the the day you sent me to deliver the message to Dale Abbey.”

“Did Kíli let it slip?” Bilbo asked, surprised.

“No,” Tauriel said; her smile was not for Bilbo, but for the memory this conjured up. “He let slip a great deal about how much he admired me while also respecting me greatly both as a lady and as an independent spirit, but he was not so careless as all that.”

“Then Lord Thranduil does know the captain’s lineage,” Bilbo concluded, with a sick apprehension.

“Lord Thranduil?” Tauriel made an amused noise. “No, Miss Baggins, my guardian remains as oblivious as he wishes to be. It was Legolas who told me.”

“But how in heaven’s name did he learn of it?”

Tauriel shrugged. “He is in charge of his father’s shipping interests; perhaps your captain’s history is more well-known in nautical circles. At any rate, he wanted to warn me away from Kíli, and thought telling a young woman that the man she admires is the long lost heir to a title would somehow put her off.”

“Legolas does not strike me as terribly adept at understanding women,” Bilbo agreed. “So he has not told his father?”

“Nor Smaug,” Tauriel confirmed, “And he shan’t, either, without my approval.”

Bilbo regarded her thoughtfully. “Should I ask what it is you have to hang over his head?”

“Best not,” she advised, and they walked onward.

“I truly am sorry for the turn of the evening,” Bilbo said, as they came within sight of the Vicarage.

“Of all the people to apologise to, Miss Baggins, I am hardly first on the list,” Tauriel said, with the easy condescension of someone far above Bilbo’s station. “But I hope you have not lost your protege, after all. Miss Bowman seems like a forgiving person.”

“She’ll have much to forgive,” Bilbo admitted. “When all this began, I knew what it would mean to me — that I would have to lie to those I loved best in the world. I thought the possibility of a better life for my parish would excuse my actions. But I did not properly consider that in order for one person to lie, another person must be lied to.”

“Are all clergywomen this philosophical, or is it just you?”

Bilbo laughed. “You sound like your guardian.”

“That’s an insult I won’t quickly forget,” she said, before growing somber once more. “Miss Bowman deserved better than to be deceived, it’s true — they both did. But it was not only you who deceived them. Mr. Eredson will have much to answer for.”

“It sounds strange to say it, but I hope you are right,” Bilbo said. “I fear that this incident may be just another injury done to her that she smiles and suffers through, without ever speaking of it again.”

“Has she had many such injuries?” Tauriel asked. “She mentioned that her mother died several years ago.”

“Five years ago, rather suddenly. Mr. Bowman… did not take her death well, and the household fell to Sigrid to care for. She was eleven years old at the time.”

“Was there nothing you could do to help her?”

Bilbo shook her head. “I was not yet here; I was appointed vicar more than a year later. I remember my first call to the Bowman’s cottage — Mr. Bowman didn’t even come out of his study, and poor Sigrid was near tears as she tried to pretend the household was as it should be. I told her I had come to make sure things would be all right. I felt like a liar then, too.” She opened the gate to the Gamgee’s field and ushered Tauriel through. “Her father gradually came back to himself and his family; for the past three years they have done well. But Sigrid had always put others above herself, no matter what the cost.”

“I was eight when my parents died,” Tauriel said, following Bilbo up the winding path. “Thranduil was my mother’s cousin, and the entire family saw him — sees him still — as a degenerate rake who would never lift a finger to help. But he would not hear of anyone else taking me in. I remember seeing him come through the front door of my parents’ house and announce that everything would be fine, because he had ordered it to be so. He seemed like an angel from heaven in that moment.”

“Do you think Sigrid sees me as an angel?” asked Bilbo, amused, as they arrived at the stable. 

Roper was dozing just inside the doors, but the horses were already in their traces, looking alert and ready for a moonlight ride. Tauriel led them down to the lane without waking Roper and climbed into the driver’s seat. 

“I’m sure I won’t see you Sunday at Church,” Bilbo told her, “But I hope I shall see you soon.”

“And I, you, Miss Baggins,” she said, and paused as she lifted the reins. “Perhaps she does,” she said, “Which is all the more unfortunate for you. Angels have no flaws, Miss Baggins. They cannot be wrong — we can only be wrong for doubting them. So I will hope and — pray, I suppose — that Miss Bowman is as angry with you as she should be.” And with that, she trotted away into the darkness.

***

Bilbo had never slept so badly as she had in the past month; when the cocks signalled the dawn she was once more curled up in her library, head pillowed in her arms and neck bent at a mightily uncomfortable angle. This time, there was no one to wake her up with an armful of horrible roses or burst in breathlessly to apologise for being late. For a moment her mind was a blank as she tried to stretch out the cramped muscles, and she wondered why she’d slept so poorly. Then the night previous came crashing back and she let her head fall back on the desk with a groan.

She managed to stagger to her feet and made for the kitchen without bothering to dress; a cup of tea and a fortifying biscuit or two were needed before she had the strength to face the morning. As she opened the door to the kitchen, however, she was met by a smell of fresh baking and the warmth of the oven at full roar, and Sigrid herself was at the table, kneading something or other into oblivion. She looked up as Bilbo came in and gave a particularly vigorous punch.

“I would like to take this opportunity to say,” Sigrid managed, still mangling the dough, “That you have lied to me, abused my trust, and made both me and my entire family look like complete imbeciles. I cannot think but that you have used us very ill indeed and that you have a great deal to atone for.”

Bilbo, still clutching at the belt of her dressing gown, was still trying to comprehend what was happening. “You’re angry at me?” she said, hopefully.

That seemed to bring Sigrid up short. “I — no, of course not.”

“You are,” Bilbo contradicted. She could not help the delighted grin on her face. “You’re _furious_!”

“I’m not angry, I’m merely disappointed in your choices,” Sigrid protested.

“You’re vindictively baking in someone else’s kitchen at eight in the morning,” Bilbo crowed. “ _I_ taught you that.”

Sigrid snatched her hands away from the dough and put them behind her back. “I used the last of the sugar making those stupid pastries for last night’s dinner,” she said. “And I wanted to make drop scones.”

“I don’t suppose I—“

Sigrid crossed her arms, leaving floury streaks across her dress — she hadn’t thought to use one of Mrs. Gamgee’s aprons. “You can’t have any.”

“Oh, very well,” Bilbo said, and sat down on a chair. After a moment, and with a suspicious look at her, Sigrid returned to her work. “Would you… like me to apologise?”

“Only if you want to,” Sigrid replied stiffly, not looking up.

“I do,” Bilbo assured her, “And I am most dreadfully sorry. I did want to tell you, Sigrid.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because it wasn’t possible,” Bilbo said. “I was sworn to secrecy when I was told the captain’s identity, and I could not break my promise. Besides which, the truth in this matter is immensely dangerous — did your father explain to you at all?”

“He said the whole lot of them will bring down fire and ruin.”

Bilbo sighed, rubbing the heels of her hands against her brow. “He may not be wrong.”

“He said I was never to see Fíli again,” Sigrid continued, “Although I don’t suppose I’d ever want to — he lied to me just as much as you have.”

“You’re surrounded by ingrates and vagabonds,” Bilbo agreed, her heels still pressed against her eyelids. “I need tea.” She heard a huffing noise and the sound of the kettle; she blinked her eyes open to find Sigrid pouring some water into the teapot. “Sigrid, you’re angry at me,” she reminded her.

Sigrid opened the tea tin with a bit more force than necessary, sending leaves spilling over the table. “I am not.”

“It’s all right to be,” Bilbo said. “You can smash a few plates or something if you’d like. Only not the West Farthing crockery, they were my mother’s.”

“For that, I ought to break at least one of them,” Sigrid muttered, which impressed Bilbo almost as much as it alarmed her. 

“I’d take it as an illustration of your remarkable self-restraint if you didn’t,” she offered. Sigrid dumped far too much tea into the teapot and slammed the lid back onto the tin, then resumed her punishment of the dough. “You’re going to overknead,” Bilbo pointed out.

“What’s so dangerous about knowing the truth?” Sigrid said, ignoring her advice.

Bilbo thought that a few batches of overworked scones were probably worth the sacrifice. “There is the possibility that the Baron could find out, if tongues are careless.”

“But the Baron would only care if he thought Captain Oakenshield was trying to take back Erebor or something,” Sigrid said, puzzled for only a moment before her expression altered. “Captain Oakenshield is trying to take back Erebor?” she asked, in a very high voice.

“Yes,” Bilbo said.

“Is he deranged?” Sigrid asked, at an even higher pitch.

“Possibly.”

Sigrid sank onto the bench, propping her elbows on the table and putting her chin in her hands. “Dangerous is hardly the word for it, then.”

“If the captain and his men fail, I believe the consequences will be dire,” Bilbo agreed. “But if they succeed, we will be rid of Lord Smaug for good.”

“So you took a gamble,” Sigrid said. “With the lives of everyone in this parish as the stakes.”

“By the time I knew I was playing the game,” Bilbo said, “I’d already been forced to gamble. It’s not as though I _chose_ any of this, Sigrid.”

Sigrid thumped her fists on the table (narrowly missing the dough). “ _I’m_ the one who gets to be angry,” she declared.

“I thought you weren’t angry.”

“I changed my mind. What’s the captain’s plan, then?”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo said, and held up her hands peaceably at Sigrid’s mutinous expression. “I truly don’t, Sigrid. My part consists solely of keeping quiet about the captain’s identity and giving him a pretext for his stay in the county. At first I did not want to know more; and now, the captain refuses to tell me, for fear I’ll do what his sister did last night and accidentally expose us all in an unguarded moment.”

“I’d trust you more than Mrs. Eredson,” Sigrid muttered, then frowned. “Then — do you suppose Mr. Eredson was just pretending to like me, too? As part of the scheme?”

Bilbo would have rushed to assure her if Sigrid’s expression had been hurt or bewildered; instead she tried not to laugh at the girl’s vengeful countenance. “I think that whatever Fíli’s copious flaws, he would never toy with the affections of a lady he did not truly care for.”

“I’m still never going to speak to him again,” Sigrid huffed.

“As is only proper,” Bilbo said, and reached for the teapot — it had been left steeping long enough.

***

A few hours and several dozen scones later, Sigrid took her leave. “I’ve decided to be angry for a while longer,” she warned, clutching her basket full of slightly tough baked goods. “But I’m still the acolyte for the parish. I would not abandon the townsfolk.”

“Thank you, Sigrid,” Bilbo said solemnly. “I appreciate your professionalism.”

Once Sigrid had gone, Bilbo set off for Gandalf’s; she did not know what Bard might do next, but it was sure to be unpleasant, given his current mood, and Gandalf at least deserved a warning.

But she was late to the battle. Bard was already there, glaring at the cup and saucer Gandalf was pouring out for him. “Oh,” Bilbo said, cleverly.

“Ah, Bilbo,” said Gandalf, in a tone he was sure to think sounded welcoming, but in fact sounded more like a drowning man attempting cordiality toward the sailor about to throw him a lifesaver. “So good of you to visit.”

There was no change in the coldness of Bard’s glare; he did not stand as she entered the parlour, but remained slumped in an armchair. She was reminded vividly of the man she’d known four years ago; not a good memory. “I did not know you were entertaining,” she said, feeling out of place and awkward for the first time in the presence of these two men. “I can go—“

“He’s been extremely entertaining, Miss Baggins,” Bard said, malice like a knife under his smile. “Tell me, how is my dutiful daughter this morning? She mentioned she would pay you a visit. No doubt she’s forgiven all.”

“I wasn’t aware forgiveness merited such scorn,” Bilbo said, biting back when she caught Gandalf’s warning look. “She did not mention you would be here.”

Bard smirked. “Would you have come if she had?”

In answer, Bilbo shrugged off her coat and placed it and her bonnet on the coatrack just inside the door. “She’s here now,” Gandalf said as he pulled the piano bench out for Bilbo to sit. “So perhaps the both of us can answer your… questions. Bard has agreed not to speak of what he learned last night with anyone, and in return I was just explaining how it was I found Captain Oakenshield in the first place,” Gandalf added, to Bilbo.

She arranged her skirts around her ankles and accepted the cup of tea Gandalf poured out for her. “Which is more than you’ve explained to me,” she pointed out.

“Indeed. It had long ago been my desire to track down the descendants of Baron Durin — merely, you understand, so that I might pass along some small personal effects that Mr. Durin had loaned to me years ago.”

It was acutely painful to catch Bard’s eye in a moment of shared scepticism; for that one instant, they had forgotten their strife and were united in the utter ridiculousness of Gandalf and his excuses. But Bard flinched and looked away, and Bilbo took a sip of her tea to cover the ache in her throat.

“But my position here made the search difficult, and I’d given up entirely until a few years ago, when I read a most singular account of a woman captured by pirates.” Gandalf paused significantly, then frowned. “You’ve already heard the story.”

“From the woman herself, no less,” Bard confirmed.

“I see. The account mentioned her maiden name, and I thought it warranted investigation. I travelled down to London and met Mrs. Eredson and her brother and confirmed that indeed, they were the only living descendants of Thror, son of Thrain Durin.”

“This explains why you hunted them down to give them Mr. Durin’s spare spectacles and pocket kerchief,” Bard said, “But not why you’ve concocted an insane scheme to oust Smaug from the Lonely Mountain. Nor why you’ve roped half the townsfolk into courting disaster for the chance at having a fool instead of a tyrant for a master—”

“You’ll keep yourself civil, Bard Bowman,” Gandalf said, “If you want your answers.”

Bard still looked disgusted, but said nothing. After a moment, Gandalf continued.

“As to your question, impertinent as it is — I didn’t divulge exactly what the situation was here, but I hinted that an application to the House of Lords might be welcome. They listened to me, thanked me kindly for the effects of their father’s that I gave them, and sent me on my way.”

“They _refused_?” Bard and Bilbo asked in unison, startling at the sound of the other’s voice.

Gandalf raised his brows. “I, too, was surprised. Mrs. Eredson was a widow of some property — her late husband had been a younger son to some baronet or other — and Captain Oakenshield had done well for himself, but they were neither of them rich. And I cannot think of many who would willingly turn down a title, whatever the circumstance. But they were both wholly uninterested. Until four months ago, when the captain wrote to me and requested that I meet with him in Bristol.”

“Yes, over Christmas celebrations,” Bilbo said, remembering the chaos that had resulted from Gandalf’s abrupt departure. “Really, Gandalf.”

“I acted for the best. I went and met with him at a rather charming inn on the waterfront, the Prancing Pony I believe it was called — excellent beer — and he said that he wanted my assistance in reclaiming Erebor.”

Bard snorted. “And you agreed.”

“Unlike you, I am not content to simply ignore the sleeping dragon that lives in that mountain,” Gandalf retorted. “We have lived in fear of him for too long, and our options for ridding ourselves of the beast are few. None of us have the power to fight him on his own terms — we need a champion, and Captain Oakenshield is as close as we’re liable to get. If we succeed in this—“

“And if you fail? What then?” Bard shook his head. “If you awaken that beast, you'll destroy us _all_.”

“What are we to do instead, Bard?” Bilbo asked. “Hope for better days? I have spent four years trying to keep that dragon, as Gandalf calls him, away from my flock; I know better than you what Smaug is capable of. You ask what happens if we fail — but we have been failing the people of Laketown for too long already.”

“Then perhaps you should not fail them so often,” Bard said, “And seek to assuage your guilt some other way than by inflicting more pain on those you are supposed to serve.”

“That is unfair, Bard,” Gandalf chided.

“And now you speak of fairness,” Bard said, mocking. “As though your decision to jeopardise our home without telling us was _fair_.”

Bilbo clenched her jaw. “Are you angry that we concealed this plan from the people — or that we concealed it from _you_?”

“I’m angry that you might truly believe that whatever scheme you’ve cooked up amongst yourselves will work.”

“I think we need more tea,” Gandalf said, and rose from his chair to scuttle away with the teapot. Bard scowled out the window, flexing his hands against the arms of the chair.

“If it is worth anything, at this point,” Bilbo said quietly, “I am sorry to have deceived you. I didn’t want—“

“Spare me your excuses,” Bard snapped. “Do you think I care for your sorrow right now? You’ve lied to all of us for God knows how long — I suppose that nonsense with the captain courting you was all a lie, as well?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “Of… a sort.”

“Of a sort,” he mocked. “You looked me in the eye and said you thought that nephew of his would make a fine match for my daughter. I should have known better than to trust you.”

“I did not lie about Fíli,” Bilbo protested; Bard snorted and looked away. “If there was anything I could do to regain your trust—“

“I’d sooner ride up to Erebor and tell Smaug your entire plan than listen to one more word of snivelling apology,” he said, turning back to glare at her. “Promise to Gandalf or not, I’ll do it.”

Bilbo took a deep breath. She and Bard had argued before, even as children; she remembered getting pushed into mud puddles by the horrid Bowman boy and running home to Gandalf and her mother for consolation and cakes. But her mother was long dead, and Gandalf would not save her now. “Very well,” she said. “What would you like to hear?”

“From you?” Bard laughed. “I’d settle for knowing why you did it. And don’t trot out Gandalf’s prattle about making Laketown a better place. What was it — true love, perhaps? Did the dashing captain convince you he really would marry you, once it was all over?”

“No, of course not,” Bilbo said. “I wouldn’t — Bard, you don’t really think I would do this to become the wife of a baron, do you?”

“I didn’t believe you capable of much, before yesterday,” he replied, his tone so careless that the cruelty only hit her a few seconds after. “Now I think you capable of anything.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, wincing at how feeble it sounded.

“Perhaps I am,” he said. “But this was your singular opportunity, wasn’t it? A chance to be the hero. Little Miss Bilbo Baggins, finally coming in first again after all these years.”

“That isn’t why I’m doing this,” Bilbo snapped. “And if you won’t listen to apology, then you should at least listen to reason.”

“By all means,” Bard said, spreading his hands. “Give me your _reason_.”

“I’m helping the captain because I believe he will be a better master than Smaug. He cares about the people here—”

“He barely _knows_ the people here,” Bard retorted. “Traipsing along after you on a few of your precious rounds hardly counts.”

“It’s more than _you’ve_ ever done,” said Bilbo, regretting it as soon as she said it. But she didn’t lower her gaze when Bard sneered at her.

“I’ve never presumed to plan a takeover of the Lonely Mountain,” Bard said. “I’ve never been stupid enough to think I could. It appears I’m smarter than you, after all—“ 

Bilbo had finally had enough. “For heaven’s sake! Stop with your endless needling, Bard. I’m not one of your children that you can bring to heel by a few well-barbed insults; you can call me what names you like, but don’t presume to think yourself smarter than _me_. Particularly when all I’ve asked of you is the barest attempt at understanding.”

“Understanding?” Bard stood as well, looming over her. “I understand _you_ all too well — you’ve always wanted to be more important than you are. And now you’ll risk the lives of everyone in this village for the chance to puff yourself up. And you beg _me_ for understanding—”

“Everyone in this village? Good god, but you must think I’m a despicable fool to believe you’ve given a thought to anyone but _yourself_.” Bilbo shoved him back with both hands. He stumbled against the piano, his elbow making a jarring cacophony on the keys, as she advanced on him. “You can pretend that this is about the danger this will bring down on all of us. You would even be right to be angry. God knows I’ve spent every night and day this past month worrying about the decisions I’ve made. But you’re not angry for the people — I don’t believe it’s even occurred to you as anything more than an excuse for your moralistic outrage. You think I meant myself and Gandalf when I spoke of the failures done to this town? I was including you, Bard — _you_ most of all.”

Bard was still sprawled across the bench, staring up at her, but she was too angry to stop now. She felt poisoned with rage.

“You accuse me of wanting to be a hero to the people — what does that make _you_ , the man who could have been the hero but was too lazy to pick up the damned sword? You watched for _decades_ as this village was terrorised. And you did _nothing_. You preferred your comfortable life with your comfortable home and your comfortable routine that made no demands on you. And when the mother to your children died, instead of being a father you were nothing but a drunken sot, disappearing into a bottle with your own selfish grief and loss. Sigrid — whose forgiveness you have the gall to hold in such contempt — carried you on her back for _years_ while you tried to drink yourself to death. So I’ll listen to lectures from her, and crawl on my knees for a chance at redemption in her eyes. But I’ll be damnedif I’ll beg for _anything_ from you.”

And before she could burst into tears — for she could feel herself about to — she stormed out of the Rectory without retrieving her bonnet or coat.

***

The moment she stepped into the lane, the gathering clouds burst and it began to rain. Going back inside was unthinkable. The church was not far, but Bilbo wanted nothing more than her own home, a place where she could rage to herself and heave some books around in her temper. She gathered her skirts and walked as quickly as she could.

When she was a child, Bilbo loved walks in the rain; her father would try to impress an umbrella upon her but her mother would just laugh and let Bilbo race out ahead, jumping into every puddle she saw. Even now, conscious of her new petticoat and the disastrous effect rain had on her hair, she could feel the hot temper in her cheeks cooling and the sound of the rain against the rooftops of the cottages soothed her fretting.

That Bard was an insufferable hypocrite who had lingered too long in his sorrow and stupor did not change the truth, and Bilbo’s pace slowed as she listened to the echos of Bard’s words that still rang in her ears. 

As she crossed Main Street, she heard her name called and turned to see none other than Captain Oakenshield, an umbrella unfurled, advancing toward her. “Not the most opportune moment for a walk,” he said, as he positioned his umbrella to cover them both.

“I’m well aware,” Bilbo said, and continued toward the Vicarage. As much as she wanted to speak to him — and there were any number of subjects that required attention — she still felt too much a jumble, her mind and heart both confused and at cross-purposes. She feared she would either strike him or embrace him, and either demonstration would scandalise the townsfolk.

But the captain trailed after her, still shielding her from the rain as best as he was able. “And yet you went for a walk in any case.”

“If you’re about to tell me that I oughtn’t have gone out at all, doubly so without an umbrella, then I’d kindly suggest—“

“I’d never presume to tell you anything you oughtn’t do, Miss Baggins,” Captain Oakenshield said mildly. “You are a woman who knows her own mind.”

“That,” Bilbo said, “Is not quite true at present.” They arrived at the Vicarage; the captain hesitated at the doorway, but Bilbo sighed and said, “You may as well come in; I’ve been to speak with Gandalf and Bard this morning.”

“Then it seems our meeting was fortuitous,” the captain agreed, and followed her inside. “I came into town for the purpose of speaking to both gentlemen, but I was unsure how best to go about it.”

“Not going about it at all, would be my advice,” Bilbo said, pulling her shawl off the hook and wrapping it around herself before she bent to unlace her boots. “Gandalf can manage Bard. Providence knows that I cannot.” Unlacing complete, she exchanged the boots for her slippers and ushered the captain into the parlour. The rain ticked against the windowpanes and turned the noonday outside into dank grey dullness. She added a log to the banked fire and prodded at it a few times with the poker until it was once more crackling along.

“I take it he is still displeased with the revelations of last night.”

“That would be an extremely understated view of the matter.” Bilbo stood on tiptoe and managed to get hold of the bottle of brandy off the top shelf, where it had gathered a fine layer of dust. “Glasses are in the kitchen,” she informed the captain.

He smiled wryly but obeyed, returning a few moments later with the crystal pair that had belonged to her parents. As she put out her hand for one, he pulled them out of reach. “First tell me what Mr. Bowman said that made you need to drink elderly brandy at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

She pulled the cork from the bottle and defiantly took a swig. It might have been a more impressive display if she didn’t immediately cough and gasp as it burned down her throat. Captain Oakenshield took the bottle away and guided her to her armchair, where she tried to remember how to properly use her lungs. She heard the sound of the glasses being poured and managed to wipe away the tears in her eyes in time to see him offer one to her. “I probably shouldn’t,” she admitted.

“You probably shouldn’t,” he agreed, but did not withdraw the glass.

“Oh, very well,” she sighed, and took it. He sat down opposite her with his own glass. “I do not think you can count him as a supporter, if that’s what you’d like to know. He’s quite thoroughly convinced you will fail.”

“I already guessed _that_ ,” Captain Oakenshield said, “And if his opinion on my chances interested me, I would have brought him into my confidence some time ago. I’m more curious to know what he said about you.”

“He said a great many things, most of them insults and most of them true, which is all the more insulting.”

“He insulted you?” Captain Oakenshield said, straightening in his chair.

“Stand down, Captain, I’m not in need of avenging. He only said things that… I wish were wrong. I’ve known Bard my whole life — when one is friends with someone that long, they know you very well indeed. Too well to make their insights comfortable. The specifics should not concern you — he has promised he will not tell anyone who you are or what you plan to do.”

“They do concern me,” he said. “He made you cry.”

“The brandy did that,” she pointed out. “And I am, as you said, a grown woman.” She took a more careful drink and settled back in her chair. “Besides, it’s not as though they have no reason to be angry at me.”

“They?”

“Sigrid has also made her displeasure known. I’m sure your sister will be gratified to hear this whole affair has put Sigrid off Fíli entirely; she’s vowed never to speak to him again.”

“I doubt that was Dís’s aim, but I shall pass on the congratulations — or condolences, as they are. She’s still mightily upset about her part in last night’s catastrophe.”

“That, I can well believe,” Bilbo said, cradling her glass in her hands. “You told me last night that she knew as much as was wise — given the uproar she’s caused simply by knowing her own surname, I’m no longer surprised that you have kept your counsel close.”

“I don’t think _all_ women are like my sister,” the captain huffed, “If that is your insinuation.”

Bilbo laughed. “It wasn’t. But thank heavens for the clarification.” 

He leaned forward, setting his tumbler on the side table. “What did he say to you?”

“He said I was doing all of this to make myself into a hero,” she replied, the brandy pulling her hurt out of her like so much bad blood. “He said I was reaching for any excuse to make myself more important, and and he’d never thought much of me before now.”

It was that last remark that had slid between her ribs so easily, that festered in her heart and allowed the others to take hold. Bard had meant it to sting, and it did — all the more because it was he who had said it. In her own private account-books, Bilbo saw Bard’s current situation as a mark of her own success, tangible evidence that she had done good in Laketown. There were so many failures — deaths and disownings and old wounds she saw no way to heal. She had comforted herself at times with the Bowmans and their happiness, told herself that they were one family she had helped mend together. To hear Bard sneer at her accomplishments should have angered her. Instead it frightened her.

Had all of this effort on her part, the convolutions and conspiracies, been no more than her own ego demanding a role? _“You’ll risk the lives of everyone in this village for the chance to puff yourself up.”_ Certainly she was risking lives and livelihoods; taking a desperate chance on a man whose goodness she could only vouch for. The captain’s mettle would yet be tested, and Bilbo’s certainty in him did not mean he was certain.

The captain, meanwhile, had taken her own tumbler away and set it next to his. She was about to protest this when he gathered both her hands in his. “Captain,” she said, unsure in the extreme.

“I trust you will forgive my presumption, Miss Baggins,” he said, his gaze steady on hers — a Naval man must have more tolerance for brandy than a lady vicar — his hands warm around hers. “But I feel compelled to set the matter straight.”

“You’re hardly an expert on my innermost thoughts,” Bilbo said, but her thumbs curled curiously along the backs of his fingers. She was aware, distantly, that she ought to be scandalised that he had seized her hands at all. Instead she found herself wondering what labours had roughened his palms, what work he had set his broad hands to.

“True — I’ve been privy to only your outer actions this past month, and to the things you have said while in my company. If you wish for a list of your shortcomings, I could provide it — you gossip too readily, you are astoundingly particular about your food, you are far too interested in things that are none of your affair — but vanity and ego are not amongst your faults.”

“This is a terrible attempt at flattery,” Bilbo pointed out.

“I’ve never had a talent for it,” Thorin agreed. He turned her hands palm upwards and examined them as closely as any market fortune-teller. “But you need no flattery. The truth is sufficient adornment to your character: you are kind beyond measure, strong-willed, humble and diligent and I have seen you go to that damned farmer’s shack nearly every day to change his bandages—“

“Are you talking about poor Bert? He’s harmless—“

Thorin clasped her hands between his, and when he looked up at her he was smiling. “And once again you prove me correct. No one could voluntarily speak with Bert and have any illusions of vanity. I’m afraid, Miss Baggins, that my inexpert study has confirmed my first impression of you.”

“Your first impression of me was when I yelled at you. In this very parlour,” she added.

“Yes, and when you did I thought that I had met the bravest woman in England.”

“One who thinks too much about food.”

Thorin shook his head, and released her hands as he sat back. “If more of us valued food and cheer,” he said, “It would be a merrier world.”

It had grown darker as they’d spoken; the rain still coming down in earnest. She stood to light some candles and Captain Oakenshield got to his feet, a politeness that meant they were standing too close. Bilbo wanted to laugh at his gentlemanly awkwardness, perhaps tease him about where he learned his manners. “What was it that you would ask me?” she asked instead.

Thorin blinked. “Pardon?”

“Last night. You said that you would ask me something, and then Bard began shouting and everything went wrong. Mr. Bowman seems to think you’re going to bribe me with promises of making me a baroness.”

“Bribe you? I doubt a title could impress you, Miss Baggins, much less bribe you.”

It wasn’t at all an answer, and he was still standing too close. “Then what? I’m wet, tired, and not in the mood for one of our typical repartees.”

“Our typical repartees are usually the result of your desire to have the last word.”

“That is not remotely true — I only want to ensure a fair discussion, while you think a good conversation ends with you saying something moderately clever and then stomping away.”

“ _Moderately_ clever, am I?“

“It’s a good deal better than what I initially thought of you—“

“I was going to ask if I could kiss you,” he said peevishly, “If you must know.”

Bilbo blinked. “Do you mean — what do you mean?”

“I meant I wanted to kiss you,” he huffed _._

“Did you want to kiss me so that everyone at the party would see,” she pressed, “Or did you want to kiss me for… other reasons?”

“For other reasons,” Thorin said, “Though I cannot recall any of them at present—“

Bilbo kissed him before he could irritate her any further.

She had, in idler moments, imagined what it would be like to be in his embrace: if he would be rough or gentle, yielding or demanding. In fact he was all these things in turn — Bilbo was on her toes one moment and pressed against a wall the next. But his mouth was a wonder all its own, and when he touched her face with one large hand she did not mind the callouses upon his fingers. She tilted her head, brushing her nose against his beard before demanding another kiss with her upturned chin. 

She was granted this and others, and what followed she remembered for some time as more shocking than the clap of thunder that made her startle at last back into her right mind. Of course as a clergywoman she knew that God was all-seeing, but in that moment it seemed to her more likely that Gandalf had summoned the thunder.

“Oh, goodness — no,” she said, firmly, to them both. “Stop. I didn’t…” but she could not find an end to that sentence.

“You didn’t mean to kiss me?” Thorin asked, still pressed against her.

She scowled and pushed back against the captain’s chest. “If you please, Captain.”

“But I don’t please, Bilbo,” he said, though he stepped back a half-pace.

“‘Miss Baggins;' _that_ is my name,” she reminded him. “I am not sure what came over you nor over myself a few moments ago, but it certainly does not need to be compounded with over-familiarity.”

“That is where I must disagree,” Thorin said, stepping close until Bilbo’s back was once more against the wall. She flattened her hands against the wallpaper to keep them safely away — an error in strategy, as it allowed the captain to crowd ever nearer. “I have every intention of compounding this.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” protested Bilbo, or tried to, before she was prevented from speaking further.

“I would speak your name every day,” he said at last. “I would speak to you as my wife, Bilbo—“

“ _What_?”

“Marry me,” he said. “Be my lady of Erebor, after I have reclaimed the mountain.”

“You cannot _possibly_ be serious,” she said, flabbergasted. “You said not five minutes ago that a title would never impress me—“

“I am not asking for your hand to _impress_ you,” he protested.

“No,” agreed Bilbo. “No, I don’t suppose you are.” She withdrew to the other side of the room and rubbed her hand over her face, wiping at cheeks grown suddenly damp.

In one of Sigrid’s romance novels, the lonely spinster would faint into the gallant captain’s arms and surrender herself gratefully to marriage and lifelong devotion. There would be a summer wedding of bells and rose petals and all would be well. The burden of work would be lifted from her shoulders, as the lonely spinster had always wanted, and she would be protected and cared for and would never have to think for herself again.

Bilbo had never enjoyed those novels; had tossed them aside as soon as the gallant captain made his appearance. It was always a gallant captain, or a charming nobleman, or a roguish Highlander, or any number of handsome men with mysterious pasts and more important futures. Never was there a story in those books that she wished to read: she knew too much about the truth of a woman’s life before marriage to tolerate the fiction of her life after it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, and his hand touched her shoulder. “You have not answered me.”

“Because it requires no answer,” Bilbo said. She smoothed the skirts of her dress, glanced down at herself to ensure that all was in order. “I knew you capable of mischief, Captain, but I did not think you capable of absurdity.”

“What mischief would you accuse me of?” Thorin asked. She glanced up at him to see his brows drawn together in a way that no doubt struck fear into his Company. Bilbo felt no such apprehension; he reminded her of nothing so much as a child denied cakes. “I’ve done nothing more offensive.”

“Your entire purpose to create such mischief as to call down the magistrates of the nearest half-dozen counties — to unseat a baron, to take charge of his barony, and to turn everyone’s life upside-down so that your life can go rightside-up. And you still have little notion of how to run an estate or how to see to the business of the land. All of which will cause no _end_ of mischief.”

“You sound like Mr. Bowman,” Thorin said, disapproving.

“Just because I’m angry with him doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Bilbo said. “Not about everything. What you are doing is — I have agreed to help you. I have not agreed to _agree_ with you.”

“What is there to disagree about? Removing Smaug would help the people of Laketown, surely.”

“In the long run, yes — _if_ you should succeed, which is by no means assured. But even if you gain your objective, I’m not so naive as to think the baron will go quietly, or that he will refrain from causing distress to whomsoever he can reach in the meantime. I doubt he will be able to reach you — others will bear the brunt of your actions.”

Thorin folded his arms over his chest. “Distress has been my family’s lot for these forty years, Miss Baggins,” he said. “I would not that any resident of Laketown knew the distress I have laboured under to come this far. When I have regained my rightful property—“

“It is not your rightful property,” Bilbo reminded him, “Not yet. And declaring it will not make it so. The Baron controls Erebor Park by law, and your plan, as far as I can tell, is to upset everyone—“

“Upset everyone?” he scoffed. “As though I were nothing more than a passing circus act, to bewilder the populace.”

“You _have_ ,” Bilbo insisted. “You have bewildered me. Enough so that I am tempted to say yes, and that is bewilderment indeed.”

That at least seemed to give the captain pause. “Then you do not see my suit as absurd as you said.”

“I see _you_ as absurd,” she told him, stepping toward him so that she might run her hand along his cheek. “Though I have grown to enjoy that absurdity. But whatever my feelings, I cannot reconcile myself to a life at your side, at the expense of my _own_ life. Your lady of Erebor would have her first duty to you. But I…”

“You owe your first duty to God and the people?” Thorin guessed, his arms circling her waist, already a comforting touch. It was another presumption, and by allowing him such liberties she was no doubt encouraging future embraces. She could not find it within herself to worry overmuch about it.

“In one order or another,” Bilbo agreed. She brushed her thumb along the crows-feet at the corner of his eye. “Does that trouble you?”

“That you would rather make my life unbearably difficult as my vicar than as my wife? Aye, but perhaps not for the reasons it ought.” He sighed, and leaned his forehead against hers. “Part of me wishes to ask a dangerous question, but I _cannot_ give up this quest. It is not just a matter of my birthright — I must do this for more than just myself.”

She remembered Gandalf’s story about finding Thorin and his sister; how they had refused at first. But she could not frame the question properly, to ask what had changed in the intervening months and years to make his birthright such a necessity. Instead she said, “I would hardly recognise you without that Quixotic gleam in your eye,” and dropped her hand.

He still held her in his arms, his warmth soaking into her. “So this is an impasse?”

“It is reality,” she pointed out, half-amused at the pout on his lips. Strange to think she had known him less than four weeks; watching his face, she felt sure of him in the way she was sure of the Earth’s slow spin around the sun.

He was about to answer when the front door opened and someone stumbled inside, slamming the door shut against what sounded like a veritable monsoon.

Bilbo abandoned Thorin and went to the foyer, where Legolas — limp and bedraggled and wetter than a drowned cat — was dripping on the carpets. He was wrestling with his inside-out umbrella, nearly poking his eye out in the process, when he saw Bilbo at the doorway and bowed. “Miss Baggins,” he said, and sneezed.

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo said, dubiously.

Legolas gave up on the umbrella and leaned it against the wall. He fumbled for his handkerchief. “My father sent me to ask if you had enough linens for all the tables, since he has just awoken from a terrible nightmare in which you didn’t.”

“Just awoken? It’s almost one o’clock.”

“My father keeps nightmen hours,” Legolas said, sneezing again. “And as he felt his dream to be premonitory, I was dispatched with all due haste.”

“Well, I have an ample surplus of linens, but I forbid you absolutely to return and inform him of this until after it’s stopped raining,” she said firmly, pulling his greatcoat off him and hanging it on the coatrack. Legolas looked set to argue but was too busy having another sneezing fit to fend her off. “And if you don’t get warm and dry as soon as possible, you’ll get a frightful cold.”

“Perhaps then I will be obliged to miss the assembly ball,” Legolas said, sounding hopeful as Bilbo lead him into the parlour.

Thorin was still standing by the desk, looking two parts awkward and three parts suspicious. Legolas stopped short when he saw him and made a stiff leg. “Captain Oakenshield.”

“An inopportune moment for a visit, my lord,” Thorin replied with a grudging bow of his own.

“So it would—“ whatever mildly threatening or unpleasant exchange Legolas was planning was interrupted by another sneeze, and Bilbo pushed Thorin out of the way to deposit Legolas into the armchair nearest the fireplace.

“Captain,” Bilbo said over her shoulder, “If you would be so good as to fetch Dr. Elrond, I’d be obliged to you; his house is in the next lane over.”

“I’m perfectly all right,” Legolas protested, sneezing halfway through.

“Perfectly,” Bilbo agreed, and went to the glory box in the hallway to fetch a blanket. 

Thorin followed her. “It’s still raining,” he said, in what she was sure he thought was a mild tone but in truth sounded dangerously close to a whinge.

“So fortunate that you have such a lovely umbrella,” she said as she handed it to him. “Take care with the wind; this storm seems detrimental to umbrellas at present.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Thorin muttered, and she could not resist the temptation to take hold of his lapels and kiss him at the corner of his downturned mouth. He responded with admirable dexterity, holding her close with one hand while keeping his still-damp umbrella well away with the other. “Am I to take this as precedent for our future relations?” he complained after a moment. “Am I to be seduced into agreeing to your every command?”

“What a delightful suggestion, Captain,” Bilbo said, and kissed him again before releasing him. “Now, Dr. Elrond is the fourth house in the next lane to the left, with the blue door. If he is not at home, ask for his daughter — she’s quite as capable.”

“It seems I’m surrounded by accomplished women,” Thorin said. “It’s a wonder you find the need for men at all.”

“I refuse to respond do that on the grounds that it’s far too easy a jibe,” Bilbo said. “Now go; I’m done seducing you for now.”

“More’s the pity,” he said, and kissed her one last time. He was gone a few moments later, leaving Bilbo to convince Legolas that, in light of the circumstances, it wasn’t at all improper for him to remove his boots in a lady’s home.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time Dr. Elrond had arrived (trailed by Thorin, still suspicious), Legolas was shivering, though he’d managed to fend off every one of Bilbo’s offers of tea. “I’m afraid the vicar is quite right,” Dr. Elrond said cheerfully, after listening to Legolas’s lungs and examining his throat. “You’ve caught a bad chill, and if you don’t get dry and warm immediately you’ll have a fever to contend with, too.”

“So you see,” Bilbo said, “You really should have taken your boots off in the first place.”

“Likely he saw your floors were still wet and muddy from the rain,” Thorin observed, “And did not wish to dampen his stockings.”

Legolas looked as close to grateful as Bilbo had ever seen him. “They’re new,” he explained.

“Quite,” Thorin assured him.

Mrs. Gamgee appeared like an angel of mercy with a hot water bottle. “Roper’s gone up the Mountain,” she said, “To let them lordships know what’s become of the lad.”

This seemed to pierce Legolas’s understanding, and he said blearily, “Did you tell him about the linens?” 

Mrs. Gamgee gave him a telling look and turned back to Bilbo. “He’ll be here a while yet, is my thinking.”

“Mine as well,” Bilbo sighed.

Dr. Elrond took charge of Legolas and installed him in Bilbo’s guest chambers while she fetched some wood for the fireplace and a few extra blankets. Thorin helped her, reluctantly. “And how long is ‘a while yet’?” he asked.

“Worried about my pantry, Captain?” Bilbo asked, piling another log into his arms. “There really _is_ a first time for everything.”

“I shouldn’t think that lad eats more than mashed parsnips and dry toast.”

“I’ll report on all his menu choices,” Bilbo promised as she put one more log on top. “Are you sure you can carry all that upstairs?”

In response, he shifted the firewood to his left arm and used his right to drag her near. “I think I can manage,” he said.

Everything ought to be terrible. The last twenty-four hours had been full of events that had either upset or bewildered her: she had fought with her dearest friend and had refused the proposal of the most eligible man ever likely to make her an offer, been shouted at and soundly kissed — she should have swooned at some point, at the very least. But although she would spend yet another sleepless night staring at the ceiling, Bilbo did not see the world as so terrible in this moment.

She eventually led Thorin upstairs to the guest room, where Legolas had been deposited unceremoniously into one of Roper’s nightshirts. (Bilbo had the vague suspicion it was the one she’d given him last Christmas.) It was far too large and gave him the appearance of a cross child unwillingly put to bed. Dr. Elrond loomed over him, his hand clasped around Legolas’s wrist.

“How goes the patient?” she inquired, unloading her burden of quilts.

Dr. Elrond looked up from his pocket-watch, which he was using to measure Legolas’s pulse. “I’ve given him something to help him sleep,” he said.

“I’m not in the least tired,” Legolas interjected, sneezing into his handkerchief with his free hand. He paused as though waiting for another sneeze before a huge yawn caught him by surprise.

Dr. Elrond seemed unimpressed. “As I said. Rest and stout broth will soon put him to rights, but if he’s worse in the morning, let me know right away. I’d advise a sinapism sometime this evening.”

“A sidapisip?” Legolas demanded.

“A mustard plaster,” Bilbo informed him, turning back to the gentlemen. “Thank you, Doctor. Captain Oakenshield, if you’d be so kind as to see Dr. Elrond out? I don’t think I should leave his lordship alone until he’s fallen asleep.”

“I’m right here,” Legolas said, peevish, around another yawn. 

Bilbo stepped out into the hallway and shook Dr. Elrond’s hand in farewell. “Please send me the bill,” she said. “It’s in part my fault that the poor boy is stuck here for the foreseeable future.”

“I shall do no such thing,” Dr. Elrond said. “He told me it was his damned-fool father who sent him in this downpour, and that is who will pay.”

“I should take my leave as well,” Thorin said. “I agreed to meet my sister at the milliner’s at three o’clock.”

“It’s quarter past, I believe,” Dr. Elrond said, pulling his watch out of his pocket to make sure. “Do you need direction?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Thorin said. He took Bilbo’s hand and bowed over it. “I believe we still have matters to discuss, Miss Baggins. Perhaps I can call upon you tomorrow after Church?”

Bilbo glanced at Dr. Elrond, whose eyebrows were nearly up to his hairline watching their exchange. “Of course, Captain,” she said, clearing her throat.

Thorin made his way down the stairs; Dr. Elrond hesitated on the landing. “Bilbo,” he said quietly, “I hope you’ll keep in mind — the incidence of venereal disease amongst sailors is…. startling. If you were seriously considering any matrimonial arrangements with—”

“Thank you very much for your time, Doctor,” Bilbo said loudly, and retreated back into Legolas’s sickroom before Dr. Elrond could say anything else. She shut the door and listened closely as the doctor traipsed down the stairs.

Behind her, Legolas sneezed. “He’s right, you know,” he said. “About sailors. Pox-ridden whoremongers, by and large.”

“I am choosing to blame the laudanum and not you for that remark,” Bilbo said.

Just then Mrs. Gamgee reappeared, her husband in tow with a cream-coloured trunk in his arms. “The captain and Dr. Elrond are off,” she reported as she went to build up the fire. “And that umbrella of his lordship’s is past mending, I’m afraid.”

“His lordship sends his condolences, my lord,” Roper told Legolas, setting the trunk down in a corner. “And Lady Tauriel sent along some of your clothes and things that you might like to have. She even called out the barouche box to see me back,” he added, with baffled wonderment.

“Probably to make sure that trunk stayed clean,” Mrs. Gamgee grunted.

“Neither of them came themselves?” Bilbo asked, mildly surprised. Legolas did not seem the overly-hardy sort.

“Lord Thranduil had a headache,” Roper said, opening the trunk and pulling out a half-dozen books to lay on the bedside table. “And when I asked Lady Tauriel, she laughed for five minutes straight and had to sit down in order to regain herself.”

“My family are the worst of all possible families,” Legolas observed sadly, and fell asleep.

***

The Gamgees refused to let her stay in the sick room for long. “I can stay abed for a few days and have Roper wait on me hand and foot,” Mrs. Gamgee said as she all but shoved Bilbo out the door. “But the whole town will fall to pieces if you catch a chill.”

“Laketown got along just fine before I ever arrived,” Bilbo protested, though not very strenuously. Legolas snored very, very loudly.

In response, Mrs. Gamgee slammed the door in her face. 

So Bilbo was left to wander downstairs to the library to pick at the sermon for tomorrow’s service. She sat herself down at the desk and pulled out her penknife. The quill had lasted through her five or seven drafts of her previous sermon, and she had hopes to make it do for this one. But she was not so fortunate as to get halfway through an opening sentence before crossing it out:

~~ _It is only fitting that, so close to our Lord’s rebirth, we should speak of belief in_ ~~

~~ _With the turning of the winter to spring, our thoughts ought to turn toward the_ ~~

~~ _Our reading this week includes the passage regarding_ ~~

Each beginning was more appalling than the last. All her words felt like mistruths and misdirections — what lessons could she impart on her congregation now, with so much of her mind in chaos? She gave up even the pretence of work and instead gazed out the window. The rain had stopped and the late evening sunshine had made its way through the clouds, tossing shadows behind each house and tree and fencepost.

It wasn’t her mind that was troubled; today’s arguments had shown her that much. She could not have done anything other than what she _had_ done, these past weeks — her conscience was by no means clear, and she felt unable to call herself a paragon of any kind of virtue, but she could not find within her actions a better course than the one she had charted.

It was her heart that clamoured for satisfaction, gnawing at her until the very act of breathing was painful. She was such a mix of misery and elation that she felt sick. To think that Bard would never speak to her again; to know that Sigrid’s love for her was now forever tinged with distrust. So much of what she’d feared had now come to pass, and the worst was still yet to come.

But she could still feel Thorin’s lips against hers, the rough scrape of his beard against her cheeks. She had told herself that his heart was indifferent; that hers was the only one at risk in this venture. She had been proven wrong in the lovliest of ways. And yet she was still in turmoil, her certainty in his disinterest replaced now by a curious apprehension, even while she smiled to recall his embraces.

Bilbo had not often been in love. Once with a shy cheesemonger’s son who always gave her extra Stilton when she and her mother came to market; once with a smiling young man at university who had taught her Latin and… other things. She had watched others fall in love — and fall out of love — and had chosen, with open and clear eyes, to pursue God and the Church over a husband and family. She never pretended it had been a holy calling, but now, with Thorin’s proposal still fresh on her mind, she had to admit to herself how much of her decision to take orders had been a desire to prevent this very circumstance.

For the reciprocation of love seemed to her as dangerous as the denial of it — perhaps more so. She had seen few love stories play out to a happy conclusion; even her parents’ idyll of marriage had ended in grief. Cancer had claimed her mother nearly ten years ago, but the ground at the gravesite had not yet settled when it was dug up again to place her father there, too. He had simply faded away without her, too empty without her love to continue on. Bilbo had stood before those matching tombstones in the black dress she had bought for one funeral and worn for two; she’d thought that, of all the things to die for, perhaps love was the most terrible.

She had been happy without romantic aspirations; she had lived a good and godly life without need to look to another for bliss. What would it mean to become a woman in love — what else would she become? What else would be permitted? She thought again of all the dreadful novels where the woman at last finds love, marriage, and happiness — as though they had anything to do with each other. She had no use for such a life, with a trinity that she did not believe in.

Perhaps it was just possible that she and Thorin, if they were very lucky, might be able to achieve two of the three.

***

Legolas was somewhat improved in the morning, though Bilbo was not overly surprised when he claimed to be too poorly to attend services. “I would hate for anyone in your congregation to be exposed to this infection,” he said, reaching for one of the books Tauriel had packed away for him.

“You could at least _pretend_ that that is your motive, my lord,” Mrs. Gamgee scolded him.

Sigrid was waiting on the steps of the Church, a sheaf of papers in her arms. “Good morning,” Bilbo said, wary. Sigrid’s expression reminded Bilbo of a picture she had once seen of Joan of Arc, leading her soldiers into battle: pious but unnerving.

“Good morning.” Sigrid turned and went into the Church. “I’ve pressed the surplices and lit the candles already, and counted the kneeling cushions. We’re two short.”

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said, following her into her office. “I’ll go ‘round to the Trollshaw’s tomorrow, but considering the last time, we may not want them back.”

This was met with a stiff nod, and Sigrid did not come further in. Bilbo, hanging up her coat and bonnet, waited to see what would happen next.

What happened next was that Sigrid darted forward and placed the papers in her hand on the desk. “I’d like to make a request,” she said, speaking very quickly, “Which is not so much a request as a — not a demand, exactly, but I feel that it’s really the least that can be done in these circumstances, is that you perhaps read it and if it’s all right, but even if it’s not I think it might be time that I try my hand anyway, so—“

“Sigrid,” Bilbo interjected, “Perhaps if you told me what you want me to do?” She reached for the papers, only to have Sigrid snatch them back as though saving a babe from some mortal peril.

“It’s a sermon,” Sigrid said. “I wrote it last night. And this morning, a great deal of it this morning, in fact, some of the pages might be still a bit damp.”

“I see,” said Bilbo, not at all certain that she did.

“I would like you to read it for your sermon today,” Sigrid said, thrusting at her the half-dozen pages with her neat scrawl covering both sides of every sheet. Bilbo saw the words “trust” and “repentance” on the first page; “trust” was underlined heavily.

Instead of taking them, Bilbo circled around and sat at her desk. “I take it this has something to do with the events of the past few days?”

Sigrid coloured. “No. Yes,” she corrected immediately. “I simply — I had some thoughts.”

“Understandably,” said Bilbo. She leaned back in her chair and regarded Sigrid for a few moments, trying not to show her amusement at the girl’s attempts not to squirm. It was probably very wrong to do what she was about to do, but Bilbo had had a trying few days. “When I was a curate in Hobbiton,” she said, “I worked under a fearful old vicar named Beorn. He’d preach fire and brimstone and I don’t think he ever had a single parishioner fall asleep during his sermons. He _hated_ me, and I was terrified of him, but more than that I wanted to teach him a lesson. So I listened to every one of those sermons he gave, and at last one day I wrote a sermon for him to read. No fire, no brimstone: a sermon that I thought the people of Hobbiton needed to hear. I knew it was the height of impertinence, but I did it anyway.”

Sigrid was still standing with her sermon outstretched; at Bilbo’s pause she seemed to recall herself, and sat down with the papers safe on her lap. “Did he dismiss you?” she asked, in a very small voice.

“Far worse,” Bilbo said solemnly. “He did to me what I am about to do to you. Sigrid, I think it’s well past time that you give a sermon to the congregation yourself.”

She looked like she was about to be ill. “Oh.”

***

Sigrid _was_ ill, in fact, three separate times before services began. Bilbo greeted the parishioners as they came in and ignored Sigrid’s disappearance into the back room, though goodness only knew what the poor child had left to expel. Instead she spoke with each attendant at the door, listening to the setbacks they had suffered throughout the week and what prayers they might be offering to the Almighty during the course of the day. Laketown’s denizens had a curious reticence about prayer, she had noticed; as though worried even their supplications to God might require approval before being sent along. She assured Mrs. Bracegirdle that it was not at all improper to ask the Lord for some assistance locating her second-best nightcap, and nodded along thoughtfully as Mr. Truckle debated with his wife the merits of praying for their son to finally gather his nerve and propose to Henrietta Jackson-Harding in the next town, now that he’d secured a position as footman in the Erebor household.

Bilbo heard the sailors arrive long before she saw them, a clatter of boots and laughter and song bursting around the west corner into view. Mrs. Eredson was in the midst of them, singing along merrily as she held her brother’s arm, her bright dress making her a golden rose amongst the sea of Navy. 

_“The Road goes ever on and on,_  
 _Down from the door where it began._  
 _Now far ahead the Road has gone,_  
 _And I must follow, if I can,_  
 _Pursuing it with eager feet,_  
 _Until it joins some larger way_  
 _Where many paths and errands meet._  
 _And whither then? I cannot say!”_

The group swarmed up the steps and tumbled through the church doors with cheerful greetings, but Thorin and his sister paused for a moment. “Good morning, Miss Baggins,” Mrs. Eredson said, “Although I can hardly connect the twinkle-eyed young woman I’ve met with this very sober vicar before me.”

“We are the Church of England, and therefor have no communal wine,” Bilbo replied, “So you are well to say I am very sober indeed.” She caught Thorin’s eye; he was smiling at her, but resumed his scowl when his sister glanced up at him.

“Sobriety is such a tiresome affliction, it’s true,” Mrs. Eredson said, but the smile soon left her face and she added, “I hope all is… not too dire? From the events of the other evening?”

Bilbo was unsure how to answer — torn as she was between assurance and annoyance — but just then, Smaug’s carriage bowled into view, horses skittering to a halt in front of the doors. Young Harry Truckle, still gangling despite his new footman’s uniform, scrambled to open the door and put out the step; no sooner had he done so than Smaug alighted from the carriage, followed in quick succession by both Tauriel and her guardian.

Mrs. Eredson noted their arrival, and something seemed to occur to her. “I’m given to understand,” she said to Bilbo, “That you’re holding dear Miss Tauriel’s brother or some such relative hostage in your home at present?”

“Their relationship,” Thranduil declared from the bottom of the stairs, “Is somewhat more complicated, though he is certainly no less precious to my dear ward.” He closed the distance with a charming smile, his cane tapping on each step. “Nor she to him.”

Smaug, escorting Tauriel up the stairs, made a chiding noise at his guest. “For one of such good breeding, you are so reliably ill-mannered.”

Thranduil looked surprised. “I? What have I done this time?”

“It may be a country custom to refrain from speaking to a lady until one has been presented,” Tauriel said, nodding a greeting to Bilbo.

“Another reason to flee the back woods as soon as is possible,” Thranduil decided. “But if you would do me the kindness, Miss Baggins, correct my manners.”

“My lords, please allow me the pleasure of introducing Mrs. Eredson of Dover and London,” Bilbo said, unable to suppress the feeling that she was lighting a fuse to a powder-keg. “Mrs. Eredson, these are Lord John Smaug of Erebor and the Honourable Lord Thranduil of Mirkwood.”

“My manners must be contagious,” Thranduil said, bowing over Mrs. Eredson’s hand, “For surely Miss Baggins would not normally present a mere baron before an earl.”

Bilbo attempted a smile, though she felt as ill as Sigrid was no doubt being at this very moment. “My apologies, my lord,” she said.

Thranduil waved it aside. “No doubt you are used to your patron’s precedent, Miss Baggins,” he said, “And so I forgive you.”

Tauriel made a disapproving noise, and abandoned Smaug to take her guardian’s arm. “We should allow the vicar to begin the service,” she said, and all but dragged Thranduil inside. She called over her shoulder, “A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Baggins, Mrs. Eredson, Captain.”

Smaug made his own leg before Mrs. Eredson. “I hope I may convey my pleasure at the introduction as well,” he said. “It is such a pleasure to meet the remainder of the Captain’s family.”

Thorin stiffened at that, but Mrs. Eredson seemed singularly delighted. “I hope to give a better impression than my brother and sons,” she informed the baron, abandoning Thorin’s arm to offer her hand. “After all, they are but rough sailors — while I may have spent these war-time years less patriotically than my relations, it cannot be argued but that I have spent them in better company.”

“And may you continue in that vein,” Smaug replied, taking her hand with a slight inclination.

“Things look exceedingly promising,” said Mrs. Eredson. “Thorin, did you not have some matter or other to discuss with the vicar before the service began? I’m sure the baron would not mind escorting me within.”

Thorin smiled, no less stiff and unconvincing. “If you would, my lord, I would be grateful.”

“Oh, all gratitude is mine, Captain.”

Bilbo watched the two of them sweep through the doors as though they were being announced by trumpets and fanfare. “I sincerely hope,” she said, “That your contingency plan does not involve marrying your sister off to the baron. For all that it would likely work.”

The remark startled a laugh from Thorin, and he offered his own arm to her. “Dís has, during the entire course of her life, made it a point never to agree to any plan I might concoct,” he said. “Therefore I can promise you that whatever contingency _I_ have in place does not involve her.”

“Equally dangerous,” Bilbo sighed, and took his arm, her fingers curling around his wrist almost of their own volition. For a moment they stood together, faces lifted toward the sun with the murmur of the churchgoers behind them, and Bilbo knew in that moment that she was happy — and that it would not last.

***

Thorin made a great show of escorting her up to the pulpit, where Sigrid was waiting, grey-faced. “What on Earth is the matter with your protege?” Thorin murmured to her as they made their way up the central passageway.

Bilbo was too busy nodding and smiling to her congregation, stopping to confer with several who vied for her attention, to answer straight away. They were almost to the front before she was able to say, “I’m allowing her to give the sermon for today.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Miss Baggins.”

“It’s good for her.”

“Aye, I’ve heard expelling the bilious humours can do wonders,” Thorin replied, before releasing her arm with a bow. Mrs. Eredson, once again safe amongst the sailors, waved at him with her fan, and in the broad stretch of his back Bilbo fancied she could read the dread he felt in taking a seat beside his sister. But she dared not linger any further, for not only did she have two lords in attendance, but Sigrid looked set to faint or be sick at any moment.

The service was uneventful for the most part, although there was a rumble through the church as Bilbo herself gave the reading. She read through the passage in Matthew before announcing, “And today, Miss Bowman will present the sermon. I trust you will be as gracious in listening to her as you have been to me. If not more so,” she added, fixing the Trollshaws with a beady eye. Bert scowled back; his brothers were fast asleep.

Bilbo turned to invite Sigrid to the pulpit, which she did with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man approaching the noose. Her papers were half-crumpled in her hand, and Bilbo stood at her side for a moment as she made an attempt to smooth them out on the lectern.

“When you look up,” she advised in a low voice, “Let your eye fall on those in the last pew. It will remind you to speak loud enough to be heard by them.”

“Especially since old Mrs. Hubert insists on sitting there,” Sigrid whispered back. Her cheek was still ashen, but there at least was a hint of a smile there.

“So she can be sure to be first out the door,” Bilbo said. “Seems quite sensible to me. Breathe deeply and remember to enunciate. You’ll be fine.”

Sigrid nodded very slightly, and Bilbo descended the steps to leave her to it, taking the seat Sigrid usually occupied for the sermon. The parishioners had settled by now, looking up expectantly at Sigrid.

“‘Enter through the narrow gate,’” Sigrid said, in a voice louder and clearer than any she had used before, “‘For wide is the gate that leads to destruction, and many are those who enter through it. But the gate is narrow and the way is straight that leads to life, and few are those who find it.’”

A movement at the door caught Bilbo’s eye, and she looked away from Sigrid’s rigid spine to see Bard slipping inside, closing the door gently behind him. The sight of him, with their horrible fight still fresh in her mind, made her stomach drop. But Bard was not stalking up the central passage way to denounce her, nor was he glaring at her with all the nasty suspicion that had been in his gaze before. Instead he half-raised his hand, as though in greeting.

Sitting demurely in front of her entire congregation, Bilbo could hardly return the gesture; even a nod of acknowledgement would distract the congregation unforgivably. She returned her gaze to Sigrid, who had begun her exegeses, though she could not help but notice Bard’s careful progress along the back wall of the church, to stand quietly in the corner furthest from his daughter.

“We are meant to understand, from this passage, that the path of the righteous is one that few of us can see, let alone walk. ‘Wide is the gate that leads to destruction;’ what choices might we make that would set us on such a path? Certainly there are any number of sins we might commit: greed or cruelty, lust and envy, anger and hatred that we harbour in our hearts. But we are all of us deceived if we believe that only _deliberate_ sin can cause our steps to falter. We can veer away from the path that leads to life through the best of intentions.

“What path do we walk when we betray the trust of a friend? Are we keeping our eye on the narrow gate when we plot against a neighbour, or conspire against a king? No matter our reasons — be they the best reasons in the world, ones that would give any judge pause — do our actions stand up to the scrutiny of heaven?”

To Bilbo, who had been listening with an ear for the rhetoric rather than the message, this hit her like a glass of cold water. She could not help but glance up at Bard, who had evidently been watching her; but from this distance she could not read the expression on his face. She wondered how much of Sigrid’s sermon had been penned by his hand — or if she had simply shared her father’s anger, more deeply than Bilbo had realised.

Sigrid’s condemnations alarmed Bilbo for other reasons; the very object of Thorin’s conspiracy was, after all, less than ten feet away, in the first pew of the church, listening politely while Sigrid lectured the congregation on the dangers of treasonous action. She regarded him for a moment, conscious that even without his gaze directly upon her, she was yet being observed and evaluated. Sigrid could hardly have chosen a more uncomfortable topic.

Meanwhile, she had moved on. “It is telling that this passage gives no mention of _repentance_. God forgives all, even as he sees all and understands all — surely repentance is key to salvation? Perhaps it is. But if we are to hear the lessons of this passage, we must admit to ourselves that it is not enough to be sorry for one’s actions. We must stay on the narrow path. For once we have stumbled off it, we may never find the way again.

“Which is a very pretty idea,” she said, and Bilbo almost smiled — she had used that phrase herself sometimes with Sigrid at lessons, and whatever else Sigrid had tried to do by writing this sermon for her, it was gratifying to know she _had_ written it for her. “But how are we to know when we are stumbling? We cannot always rely on our own judgement; for we know all too well that we are a gullible audience, too willing to believe our own justifications.

“No; when we cannot trust ourselves, we must turn to each other. We must listen to the friends who tell us the truth. There are those amongst your acquaintance that love you better than you can love yourself, and so will strive daily for your improvement as much as for your comfort. If they are truly the best of friends, they will prize your improvement _over_ your comfort, and help you discard one for the other.

“And so it is with humility that we must remember who our true friends are, and that to betray their trust is to betray our own best selves,” she read, voice getting a bit steadier now that she was, by Bilbo’s calculation, nearly through. “We must hold fast to those few who will repay our friendship with truth, even when the truth is difficult to bear. Be wary of casting aside a friend out of spite, as tempting as it may be, when he says something we do not wish to hear. For it is our friends and loved ones who will keep us from the path to destruction — as we in turn shall keep them. ‘The gate is narrow and the way is straight that leads to life;’ but if we put our trust in each other, we may yet still go through that gate together.”

***

Bard was nowhere to be seen after the service, but Bilbo was too busy bidding farewell to her parishioners to search closely for him. Smaug and Thranduil were the first to leave, deep in conversation with each other and sparing her only a cursory nod as they swept out.

“The grace of nobility,” Tauriel observed, standing at her side. “Though I have the feeling you may be used to being dealt with in such a manner.”

“It is common for men of consequence to be somewhat wrapped up in—“

“Themselves?” Tauriel supplied, shaking her head. “But speaking of gentlemen who think highly of themselves — I wished to trespass on your hospitality, if I may, and see how Legolas fares. I sent him a number of books last night with your servant, but this morning I was able to catch hold of the newspaper and thought he might derive some comfort from news of the outside world.” She pulled the journal from her reticule and brandished it.

“It would be no trespass at all,” Bilbo assured her. “And I’m sure Legolas would take even greater comfort in your visit.”

That remark made Tauriel emit a most unladylike noise of derision. “Legolas does not take comfort in people,” she said. “But if it is not too much trouble, I will go and wait upon him until your return. I can see you have much to do,” she added, gazing at the line of parishioners streaming out the door. Without waiting further instruction, Tauriel bounded down the stairs and made toward the Vicarage, her newspaper still held in one hand.

Bilbo was occupied for the next few minutes speaking to those who wished to give their opinion about Miss Bowman’s sermon; it had struck many as quite a good little speech from a fine young girl, but perhaps Miss Baggins could see her way toward helping the young miss look not quite so green as she spoke? A few agreed that it made them quite seasick to watch her swaying slightly up in the pulpit, and Mr. Northtook went so far as to ask if she’d had too much courage before mounting the steps.

Her staunchest admirer was, shockingly, Bert Trollshaw. “Not bad,” he sniffed, squinting suspiciously in the sunlight. “Got some brains in her head.”

“Difficult to know where else she would put them,” Bilbo said mildly. It was very wrong to tease him, but Bert’s perennially irritated outlook brought it out in her.

“Where do women usually put such things?” Bert shot back. “Be seeing you on Monday, lady vicar.”

“Mind your leg,” Bilbo cautioned as he made his way down the steps, his two brothers in turn aiding and hounding him.

The naval company was amongst the last to depart. “We got tired of waiting on my brother,” Kíli said as he made his leg to her.

“Waiting on Fíli?” Bilbo asked, looking to the others for clarification. Thorin looked resigned; his sister amused.

“He’s shouting at Miss Bowman through the closet door,” she vouchsafed as she put on her gloves. “Or rather, she is shouting at him and he’s protesting about his inestimable admiration of her. It’s all dreadfully romantic, if you’re sixteen years old.”

Bilbo had not been sixteen for almost twenty years, and her expression must have indicated as much, since it elicited a laugh from Thorin that was quickly (and unconvincingly) turned into a cough as his sister turned to regard him. “I’ll be sure to send Fíli on his way shortly,” Bilbo said, regaining Mrs. Eredson’s attention.

“Please don’t hurry him home on _my_ account,” Mrs. Eredson said. “I’d much rather have him pining here than pining in the parlour, where he sighs so loudly it distracts me from my embroidery.”

“And then she complains at such a length that you’d think the lad had stepped on her foot,” Bofur interjected, nodding in greeting to Bilbo.

“It seems you all face dire trials,” Bilbo said gravely. “I am sorry to see the household so afflicted.”

“God has made us in His image, Miss Baggins,” said Mrs. Eredson cheerfully. She looped her arm through Bofur’s. “And doesn’t that say something about Him? Come along, Thorin.”

Thorin, who had looked set to say something to Bilbo, scowled at his sister’s back instead. “I regret I may be unable to pay a visit to you today,” he said to Bilbo, bowing over her hand. His thumb traced across her knuckles as he straightened, as though he were memorising the feel of her skin.

She was so distracted by it that she did not realize an answer was expected; it took Kíli clearing his throat loudly to recall her to the present. “Of course, Captain,” she said, and in a moment of great daring, clasped his hand in return. “Between Lord Legolas and Lady Tauriel, my house has sufficient guests to occupy my attention this afternoon.”

“No doubt, Miss Baggins,” Thorin said and bowed again, before he was swept away with the throng.

Kíli paused as the rest of the company followed his mother down the steps. “I don’t suppose you’d like an escort back to the vicarage?” he said. “The streets of this town can be dangerous, I’m told.”

“You’ve also been told that a certain young lady is to be found at said vicarage,” Bilbo chided him, “And therefore you’ll forgive me if I doubt your motivations.”

“I should take great offense at that,” Kíli protested with a twinkle in his eye.

“No doubt you should,” said Bilbo. “But I’ll do one better; I must settle matters here, but I’d be much obliged if you’d go to the vicarage for me and ensure all is well. No doubt Lady Tauriel will be glad of some protection against these dangerous streets.”

“Aye, that lordling you’ve got in your guest room doesn’t look capable of much,” Kíli agreed solemnly.

“Indeed, so it behooves you to make all possible haste.”

With a jaunty salute, Kíli made off in the direction Tauriel had taken a few minutes before, whistling the tune his company had sung earlier that morning. Bilbo bid farewell to the last few of her congregants and retreated into the church.

It was not much of a retreat; true to Mrs. Eredson’s report, there was an argument of some volume taking place in the hall. Fíli, his hat clutched in his hands and his hair rather charmingly tousled, was staring at the door that lead to the church’s storage room with a beseeching expression. “Please, Miss Bowman, I only want to—“

“I have repeatedly expressed my desire that you _go away_ ,” Sigrid shouted at him, slightly muffled by the door. “If you continue in this vein, I will not hesitate to summon a constable to have you forcibly removed.”

“You’ll have to come out of there first.”

There was a momentary pause, which Bilbo used to make her presence known. “Mr. Eredson,” she said, endeavoring to sound as disapproving as possible, “I believe Miss Bowman has made her wishes clear.”

“But…” Fíli had clearly not given a great deal of thought to the rest of the sentence; he wilted under Bilbo’s eye and moved away from the door.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, taking his arm and escorting him to the exit. “I do understand your sensibilities, but you really ought to know at your age that when a young lady ensconces herself in a closet, it is not so that someone might fetch her out.”

“Can’t you say something to her?” Fíli pleaded as she opened the front doors and urged him through. “She’s sent back all my letters.”

Bilbo paused at that. “‘ _All_ ’ — it’s not been two days since your falling-out. How many have you sent?”

“Seven,” he said, fumbling in a pocket, “And I have another one here if you would oblige me; perhaps she won’t send it back torn up if _you_ give it to her.”

The thought of Fíli having to stare at an eighth pile of shredded foolscap in response to his missives was too much for Bilbo, and she accepted the letter. “Talk a walk in the Commons until your nerves are settled,” she advised, pointing him bodily toward the patch of green. “I’d recommend at least twenty minutes.”

Fíli nodded bleakly and trudged off, still clutching his hat. Bilbo watched him go for a moment, running the letter along her fingers.

“Is he gone?” Sigrid asked from directly behind her. 

“I have a mind to put a bell on your vestiments,” Bilbo replied, after successfully covering her jump of surprise. “Yes, he’s gone to languish in the Commons until he no longer makes children cry with his mournful expression.”

“Does he really look that sad? Not that it matters to me,” Sigrid added stoutly.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Bilbo agreed. “You did quite well today; tomorrow if you wish we can debate the finer points of your exegeses, which was respectable but lacked nuance in certain places. Altogether quite a handsome sermon, however. I think you have a certain flair for it.”

Sigrid flushed a brilliant red, and stared down at her shoes. “I thought for sure I was going to be ill all over the lectern,” she confessed in a rush.

“So did I, the first time,” Bilbo said. “You’ll improve with practice.”

That did not seem to reassure Sigrid. “How _much_ practice?”

Bilbo laughed and shook her head. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

“Is it about Mr. Eredson?”

“A very shrewd guess. He said he’s written to you a half-dozen times this week-end.”

“Seven,” Sigrid corrected, which was more of a giveaway than she probably intended.

“Of course, seven,” Bilbo said. “I merely wondered why you tore them all up.”

Sigrid did not respond straightaway; she was looking out the door, to where Fíli’s dejected back could still be seen, about to turn the corner. “I said I was never going to speak to him again,” she said at last. “And I wasn’t sure if that meant I shouldn’t listen to him, either.”

Bilbo put her arm around Sigrid’s stiff shoulders, remembering only last year when she had not had to reach up to do so. “When navigating the treacherous waters of love, it seems there’s very little use in debating the ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ questions with yourself. Perhaps a better question is, do you _want_ to listen?”

Instead of pulling away — as Bilbo had half-expected — Sigrid sighed heavily and drew closer. “I suppose it _is_ the duty of a cleric to forgive.”

“And how is there to be forgiveness without understanding?” Bilbo asked. She handed Sigrid the letter. “Read this while you walk home. If you find something there worth forgiving, perhaps you might detour across the Commons?”

Sigrid’s did not quite snatch the letter from Bilbo’s grip, but it was a near thing. “Don’t you need help closing up the Church?” she asked, half-hearted.

“Go,” Bilbo answered, and all but pushed her out the door. It was something of a relief to shoot the bolt and fall back to her office, where she might find a few moments of peace to signal the end of the Lord’s week.

Instead she found Bard, perched casually on her desk as though he had not been waiting for the past half-hour while the Church slowly emptied and settled. Bilbo bit back a cry of surprise only with tremendous effort. “Your entire family is a menace,” she said, with rather more feeling than she intended. “Are Bain and Tilda waiting under the desk to frighten me to death, too?”

“As far as I know, they’re harassing Gandalf at the moment,” Bard replied, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

“I’m surprised you’d allow them to be exposed to such an irresponsible authority figure,” Bilbo said.

“Well, they’ve got a drunken sot for a father — Gandalf’s got to be a few steps up, doesn’t he?”

Bilbo glared. “If this is some feeble attempt to induce me to apologize for what I said yesterday—“

“Bilbo—“

“Then I can only say that—“

Bard lifted his hands in supplication. “I swear on my life, I’m not here to extract any apologies.”

Bilbo clasped her hands in front of her. “No, you came to hear me give a sermon that seemed tailor-made to bring me to heel. How much of that lecture was by your hand, Mr. Bowman?”

“None, Miss Baggins. Although,” he admitted, “I may have had an editorial role.”

She thought herself angry at him still; but all she could find in herself was sorrow. “‘Beware the impulse that prods you to cast aside a friendship for spite,’” she recited, and shook her head. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“It wasn’t directed at you,” said Bard. “Not entirely. It was a reminder to myself.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. What I said yesterday to you was unkind. _And_ untrue.”

“You must have believed some of it,” Bilbo pointed out. She unclasped her fascia and went to the closet to hang it alongside her spare cassock and hood.

“I wanted to, very much — to believe _all_ of it.” Bilbo heard him sigh, a heavy thing that filled the room. “I wanted you to be the gullible fool, so I wouldn’t have to be the cynical bastard.”

“Mind your language — you’re in the house of God,” Bilbo reminded him, half-turning toward him. The faint smile on his face indicated that she wasn’t sounding quite as repressive as she ought.

“And the good Lord would want me to be honest in His house, I’m sure,” he said, his expression solemn once more. “Therefore I shall be: I still think Oakenshield’s a dangerous lunatic, and I still don’t approve of this scheme of his.”

“How can you possibly approve when you don’t know what the scheme _is_?” Bilbo demanded. “Disapprove of his secrecy if you must—“

“I disapprove of the entire idea,” Bard said, his voice rising. “He has no right — _no right_ — to enter that mountain.”

“He has the _only_ right.” Bilbo’s tone shocked even herself. “Who else will correct these decades of wrong, Bard? None of us here are strong enough — we cannot fight the baron on his own terms. A nobleman may do what he pleases with his lands, his tenants — we’re no better than livestock, to complain of the slaughter. Our only chance is for another nobleman to challenge his claim.”

“And you believe Captain Oakenshield will be unchanged once he becomes Lord Durin?” Bard scoffed. “You are well-enough versed in nobility to know better.”

“I believe in him,” Bilbo said. “You said yesterday that my faith must be due to some womanly weaknesses, and I cannot lie and say my belief is disinterested. But it is sincere.”

Bard opened his mouth to reply, then shut it once more. He seemed struck by this confession, and indeed Bilbo had hardly meant to make it. But she owed Bard a great deal; the truth, most of all.

“I fear we shall not see eye to eye on this matter, Miss Baggins, at least for the present. The future will bring its own consequences — I hope we can all bear them.” He looked down at his feet. “But regardless of our views, I was too hard on you yesterday, and not hard enough on myself. I am truly sorry, Bilbo.”

Bilbo wanted to make some choice comments on just how easy on himself he had been, but instead she came and leaned on the desk next to him. She regarded him for long moments, and he returned her gaze steadily. One thing she had always enjoyed in her friendship with Bard was their shared appreciation of silence; perhaps because neither of them were often given opportunities for it. At last she said, “You said you didn’t come to extract an apology from me — are you hoping for one freely given?”

Bard huffed. “It is mankind’s lot to dwell in hope,” he said. “But I don’t think I deserve an apology. Not yet,” he added.

“If we are all murdered in our beds as a result of this enterprise, I promise to apologize most heartily.”

“A fine compromise,” Bard said. “But I suppose I owe you a little more… trust, perhaps, is the word. We have followed you this far; you have not lead us astray.”

“Thank you, Bard,” she said, and held out her hand for his. He gripped it tightly, and they stood in the peaceable silence of her office for a little while longer.

***

By the time she returned home, the skies had begun to darken once more; she hurried the last few steps as raindrops began to fall upon the still-muddied pathway, and was greeted at the door by an impressively irate Mrs. Gamgee. “I declare I don’t know what goes on in your head, Miss Baggins, when you’d go rushing about out of doors while the heavens are set to erupt again and your very home is invaded,” she scolded as she helped Bilbo out of her jacket and bonnet.

“If it makes a difference, I did invite the invaders,” she said. “Where are they?”

“Lady Tauriel is upstairs with Lord Legolas,” Mrs. Gamgee sniffed, “And that young Mr. Kíli is in the library, behaving himself.”

“That wasn’t very kind of you,” Bilbo said.

“I’ll take level-headed over kind-hearted any day, Miss Baggins.”

“Of course; in the meantime, I have kept you and Roper working on the Lord’s day. Lady Tauriel and I will manage his lordship from now until this evening; you really ought to get some rest and tend to your own household.”

Mrs. Roper watched her narrow-eyed. “I suspect I’m being managed out of the way,” she said, “But if it means I don’t have to listen to that poor little lordling snore for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll gladly take it.”

Kíli was examining her book collection when Bilbo came in. “I’m amazed,” he said. “Onboard we usually have no more than a half-dozen volumes, most of them about navigation.”

“You’re welcome to borrow any that strike your interest,” Bilbo told him. 

He shook his head. “I can at least _understand_ the books on navigation,” he said. “Books on theology and history would be a few yards over my head.”

Bilbo laughed. “If you’d care to stay here a bit longer, I’ll send Lady Tauriel down to sit with you. My housekeeper Mrs. Gamgee was reticent to allow you to be unchaperoned, but I believe you both can be trusted to behave yourselves.”

She meant to sound reproving, but Kíli actually brightened at her words. “Mrs. Gamgee thinks I’m a threat to Tauriel’s virtue?”

“Honestly, sailors,” Bilbo huffed, and left him to peruse the shelves.

Tauriel, for her part, was surprised to learn of Kíli’s presence in the house — though it was nothing compared to Legolas’s. “What is _he_ doing here?” Legolas demanded, sneezing into a large handkerchief.

“Presumably he is here to see me,” Tauriel said, all self-assurance. She rose from her chair, but did not leave the room; rather she knelt to put another log on the fire. Bilbo raised her brows at this; Tauriel smiled. “If he is, it will do him no harm to wait. I want to make sure Legolas is comfortable.”

“Your kindness does you much credit.”

“Rot,” Legolas said distinctly, patting at the blankets until one hand came up with the journal Tauriel had brought him and the other with a pair of spectacles, which he put on with much ceremony.

“I wasn’t aware you required reading glasses,” Bilbo said, drawing a chair next to Tauriel’s.

“He cannot see past the end of his nose without them,” Tauriel said cheerfully as she returned to her own seat.

Bilbo frowned at Legolas. “But I have seen you reading — you were reading the newspaper the other day, when I came to assist your father with the planning.”

“He wasn’t _reading_ ,” said Tauriel. “He was cowering and probably praying for death.”

“I was _not_ praying for death,” Legolas protested behind the wall of paper.

“And yet no contradiction against my charge of cowardice. Interesting.”

Legolas crumpled the paper down to his lap in order to glare at Tauriel over it. “If all you wish for is assurances that I’m comfortable,” he said, “Take them and go. Nothing I’ve told you about that sailor has made the least difference, so you may as well.”

“On the contrary,” Tauriel said as she arose once more, “All the information you’ve given me about him and his family have only made me like him more.”

“I thought women loved mystery,” Legolas complained at Tauriel’s retreating back.

“When I advised you to marry a woman who knows as little about you as possible,” Tauriel replied, turning at the door, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Bilbo managed not to laugh at Legolas’s outraged expression, but it was a difficult endeavor. “Some women _do_ love mystery.”

“Not Tauriel, clearly,” Legolas muttered, shaking out his paper to begin reading it once more. Bilbo wondered if he meant to come across as rude, but Legolas’s temperament did not strike her as such; rather she suspected that he’d lived so long with people familiar to him that he never truly reflected on his own behavior. “Nor you,” he added as he turned the next page. “Though I confess to surprise that someone who knew Captain Oakenshield well would continue to find him appealing.”

Bilbo recalled her conversation with Tauriel the other evening — the disclosure of Legolas’s information, whatever it might be. Curious, Bilbo said, “How did you come to discover the truth of the captain’s identity? I did not think it would be something of interest to you. And considering your acquaintance with him has been so brief—“

“You are forgetting my father,” Legolas interjected, adding in a low mutter, “A feat few are capable of.”

Bilbo could feel heat rising in her cheeks — she had indeed forgotten the dalliance between the two men, a quarter-century before.

“My father is a man of many passions and few prudences,” Legolas continued; he finished the page in his paper and closed it with a papery snap, to focus his attentions on her. “And over the years I have learned that the best way to protect our family is to know more about his paramours than they know about him.”

“A dispiriting task, I should imagine,” Bilbo remarked.

“And an exhausting one,” Legolas confirmed, removing his eyeglasses. “I have an entire press clipping agency at my disposal, and they are kept quite busy. Your captain has not been a particularly notable entrant — which is all to the good,” he said hastily, “Since those who are written about most often are the ones most likely to cause incidents. No, his clippings consist mostly of commendations and commissions.”

“And yet from them you were able to discover not only his given surname, but his family history.”

“Not from those clippings. And I might never have made the attempt at all, until that affair at sea this past autumn. The article piqued my curiosity, so I set my resources to finding out about him — a considerably more difficult task than I’d imagined, as it turned out.”

“How so?”

“He’s one of the few officers of the Navy who is _not_ given to spinning wild tales about himself,” Legolas said, much aggrieved. “The whole process was tedious; I will only say that anyone who had attempted it the other way around — finding out the fates of the Durin children, rather than finding out the past of Captain Oakenshield — would have had a considerably more difficult time of it.” He regarded Bilbo with a rather shrewder eye than she had expected of him. “So you may be reasonably sure that few others have made my discoveries.”

“But surely,” Bilbo said, recalling Gandalf’s story from yesterday, “Surely you found the Captain’s last name in that same article you spoke of? The one about those pirates kidnapping of his sister, Mrs. Eredson? I’m given to understand it mentioned her maiden name.” Though even as she said it, she knew it could not be right — the kidnapping had happened years ago, not months.

Legolas blinked at her, clearly puzzled. “Certainly I saw the article, since Captain Oakenshield is named the hero. But there was no mention that the damsel and the captain were related, as far as I recall. And even if it _had_ given her maiden name, the Durin family were hardly prominent enough in their prime to make the connection obvious. No; the article _I_ mean is the one about the _Longbeard_.” He seemed even more puzzled at her expression. “It sank in the Channel in November; all hands lost save a dozen men and the captain, dragged from the wreckage. No other information was given, but as I said, it made me curious.”

This news fell on Bilbo’s ears like the clattering of stones. “His ship was _destroyed_?”

“In a rather brutal storm,” Legolas said. “The Admiralty concluded that the ship was insufficiently made fast, and sank due to the captain’s poor judgement. The findings would have been made public, but the captain’s uncle apparently interceded.” Legolas opened his paper again, settling his glasses back upon his nose. “One assumes your captain accepted the Admiralty’s decision in order to save himself the disgrace of a very public court-martial. Your Captain is in rather a desperate position, Miss Baggins; I do hope he knows what he is about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "sidapisip" line is from the 1940 version of Pride & Prejudice, which gets a lot of shit but was my earliest (and still dearest) exposure to Jane Austen. Additionally, I am aware that clipping agencies didn't actually come into being until the mid-19th century, but if anybody needed one before then, it was Legolas.


	12. Chapter 12

“It is barely seven o’clock,” Gandalf complained, tightening the belt of his robe as he peered at Bilbo. “In the _morning._ ”

“Then I suggest you brew yourself a strong cup of tea,” Bilbo advised him as she stepped through the doorway and into the hall. Her sympathy for Gandalf was extremely limited — he ought to count himself lucky that she had not knocked down his door at ten o’clock last night demanding explanation.

“Is this another instance of you baking at me for three hours?” he asked. He led her through the parlour and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Bree was at the stove already — though she took one look at Bilbo’s expression and vanished into the servants’ quarters. Gandalf sat down heavily at the table. “If so, I’d like to request some drop scones.”

“I shan’t be baking anything,” Bilbo said, an eye on the kettle. “I’ve come for information, not castigation.”

“Coming from you, the two often share striking similarities.”

She was in no mood to begin a conversation into _her_ shortcomings. “Did you know about the _Longbeard_?”

He paused; Bilbo knew what his reply would be even before he said, “I did.”

“That it sank with almost every soul on board?”

“Yes.”

“And that Captain Oakenshield has been all but stripped of his rank and put on indefinite leave by the Navy, in lieu of an official court-martial and discharge?”

“You make it sound so very dire,” he sighed. “How did you come to learn of all this, may I ask? I can hardly believe the _captain_ told you. Unless there have been some late night confessions—“

“I’ll thank you to keep your prurient questions to yourself,” Bilbo said sharply.

It did not at all have the intended effect; instead of keeping him quiet, it piqued Gandalf’s interest. “A very spirited response to an idle comment,” he observed.

The kettle at last began shrieking; Bilbo was casting about for a cloth to wrap around the handle when Mrs. Bree reappeared, rag in hand, to pour the water into a waiting teapot. Without a word, she went back to her quarters; the door shut with a very emphatic _thump_. Bilbo pulled out two teacups and saucers, ignoring Gandalf’s pointed clearing of his throat when she placed the sugar bowl within her reach and not his. She took her seat; the steam from the teapot’s spout billowed out between them. “I don’t find myself inclined to share confidences with you at the present moment, Gandalf,” she said, “Given that you have been deliberately conceling information — _vital_ information — from me.”

“It’s hardly vital,” he protested. “The most you can call it is interesting.”

“The most I can call it is damning, and I won’t beg pardon for my language,” said Bilbo. “Captain Oakenshield had known of his father’s birthright for years, but only after he destroys his own ship does he make an attempt to reclaim it? At the very least, his motivations will give a magistrate pause — even if he _does_ obtain the documents he requires.”

“Have you told him so?”

“No. I have not told him anything at all of what I’ve learned.” She did not add that it was solely because she had not seen him yet.

“Yes, which reminds me that you didn’t answer my earlier question. How did you learn of it, if not from our dear captain?”

“How did _you_?”

“From the captain himself, of course,” Gandalf said. He reached for the teapot, serving himself first. Bilbo narrowed her eyes but did not interrupt him to chastize. “I was suspicious when Captain Oakenshield came to me earlier this year; he had refused any part in my endeavors four years ago, why agree now? So I asked him as much.”

“And?” Bilbo prompted.

Gandalf took a sip of tea, making a tragic expression over its lack of sugar. “I suggest you follow my example.”

*

Nevertheless, when Thorin arrived on her front stoop a few hours later, Bilbo was still of so many differing opinions that she could not decide whether to demand answers at once or simply refuse him entrance. At last she opened the door, but came out with her basket and bonnet before he could step inside. “It’s a very busy schedule for today,” she said, walking right past him onto the road, “I hope you are equipped to handle it.” _When in doubt,_ her father had always said, _do your duty_.

“From any other woman, I’d suspect that was an attempt at flirtation,” Thorin said from behind her. “But I know better than to accuse _you_ of any such thing _._ ”

“Thank you very much,” she replied. He caught up with her in the lane — though to his credit, he made no attempt to take her basket from her or offer his arm. It was disheartening in the extreme how easily he could match strides with her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead.

They went on their rounds in good order; the the Trollshaws, the Hardwickets, the Gandyrens. Bilbo collected food from some and distributed food to others, spoke to the mothers and husbands and children under her care. Bert’s leg had healed cleanly, though he took great pains to tell Bilbo (and her “fancy man companion,” as he called Thorin) that she earned no credit for his naturally strong constitution.

And all the while, Legolas’s information about the _HMS Longbeard_ jabbed at her like an ill-placed hatpin. Without betraying her source, she could find no way to broach the subject she so dearly wished to discuss; and she was well enough aware of her inability to dissimulate. Thorin would no doubt cotton on to any attempts of hers to begin the conversation; and then what could she say? How else was she to explain her intelligence?

Yet she was anxious for answers. Such a vital piece of his history had surely not been left out by accident; what had he meant by hiding it from her deliberately? She did not want to believe him an incapable leader, who bore the responsibility of so many deaths. But she knew that the wish to believe in something was not, in itself, proof. Perhaps all this time she had been fooled in her turn, thinking his desire for the seat of Erebor had been disinterested nobility of purpose. It was strange to realize that she had never questioned his motives for returning.

“You are thinking so loudly,” Thorin remarked as they at last turned down the lane toward the Vicarage, “That I cannot hear myself think at all.”

“My apologies, captain,” Bilbo said, reflexive.

“Whenever you apologize, my hackles go up. What has happened? Was it that tea that Mrs. Findenwart gave you?”

Bilbo reflected on her choices. They were all of them extremely disagreeable. “I suppose I’m simply tired,” she said at last.

“It has been a trying few days,” said Thorin. “Heated arguments, indisposed noblemen, and unwanted proposals all flung at your doorstep.”

His tone held no censure, and when she looked up at him he was smiling, albeit ruefully. “It _was_ unwanted,” she admitted, “Though not entirely… unappreciated.”

“Best be careful with your praise, Miss Baggins, or you shall tempt me into proposing again.”

Bilbo scowled. “Whatever you may have read about ‘elegant females’ who refuse the first few offers of marriage from a particular gentleman,” she said, “I assure you that I am by no means one of them.”

“I think you very elegant,” Thorin protested.

She could not help but smile at that. “And that blindness is one of your charms, Captain Oakenshield.”

“One amongst many, I hope,” he said as he opened the Vicarage’s gates. A loud honking noise emanated from the open first story window as they passed beneath it; Thorin’s mouth twitched in a smile. “I meant to ask how your patient is faring,” he said.

“Still indisposed, but Dr. Elrond believes he ought to stay abed another few days. He’ll be well enough in time for the assembly ball, in all probability.”

“More’s the pity. But I’m glad he’s better — even if I suspect he is not the subject of your ruminations this afternoon.”

“What happened to the _Longbeard_?” The words rose out of her throat and out of her mouth without any conscious thought on her part; as though another party had spoken them aloud, then left the two of them alone with the silence at the front door of her house.

At last Thorin said, “What do you know of the matter?”

“Not enough — and nothing at all, from _you.”_

He looked torn between anger and resignation; he would not meet her gaze. “I cannot speak of it now.”

“And when _can_ you speak of it?” she demanded. She ought probably to be cowed by him in this moment, chastened by the finality of his tone. Instead she was provoked. “I have considered you, all this time, to be a man compelled to aid the people Erebor despite your duty to King and country. Now I am to understand that you no longer have such a duty, and perhaps never will have again—“

“You do not understand—“

“And I would _like_ to—“

“Enough!” Thorin growled.

Bilbo’s jaw snapped shut on what she was about to say, her teeth grinding together.

Thorin held up his hand, as though to ward her off. “I cannot speak of it _here_ ,” he said. “But if you would visit me tomorrow at the Abbey, I will do my best.”

“Come inside, and you can do better than that,” Bilbo countered.

Thorin’s eyebrows lifted high enough to endanger his hat. “I regret to suppose that _that_ was not an attempt at flirtation, either.”

Bilbo reviewed what she said; her cheeks burned. “I shall present myself at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” she said, and took her leave.

*

Legolas seemed more irritated than indisposed when she looked in on him. “My father came to visit,” he sniffed. “While you were gone.”

“And how is your father?”

“Not in the _least_ ill.”

Bilbo left him to his books and retired to her library; Sigrid wafted in at quarter past four, humming under her breath and looking so radiant that Bilbo was tempted to repeat Dr. Elrond’s advice to her, regarding the possible infections prone to sailrs. Instead she poured Sigrid some of the tea Mrs. Gamgee had brought. “I take it you found your walk in the Commons yesterday a pleasant one?”

“It was extremely pleasant,” Sigrid replied, blushing only a little as she accepted the cup and saucer. “I suppose Captain Oakenshield has told you everything?”

Bilbo had been so distracted that she could not recall a single subject Thorin had broached that afternoon, but she said only, “I’d be happy to hear the story from you.”

“It’s hardly a story,” Sigrid protested, and immediately launched into the tale of her reconciliation with Fíli. Apparently there had been a great deal of clutching at each other’s hands, and Fíli had promised to tell her anything she might wish to know, in order to secure her affection.

It was not a promise that Thorin would appreciate, Bilbo felt sure. But Sigrid was sixteen years old and Fíli only a few years older; such promises were for the young. Bilbo was careful to nod and smile at all the right places. Her reservations she kept to herself.

At last Sigrid seemed to run out of breath, and she took a sip of the tea that was no doubt cold by now. “At any rate,” she concluded, “I suppose I ought to forgive him.”

“As you said yesterday,” Bilbo replied, “It is a clergywoman’s duty to forgive.”

Sigrid frowned at her. “I think you’re laughing at me, Miss Baggins,” she complained.

“Only a little. Now, about your sermon yesterday — I think we ought to discuss several points of scripture that you might have used with greater effect.”

*

Bilbo awoke the next morning just past dawn, the Gamgee’s rooster making a fearful racket outside. Gollum, for once, had decided to sleep in her chambers; she found a warm, grumbling lump at the foot of her bed as she moved under the covers. The hateful old tom opened one baleful eye at her before curling up into an ever tighter ball, his tail wrapped firmly around his nose.

She was tempted to follow suit, but instead she dressed and had breakfast, checking in on her patient briefly. Legolas was sprawled in a very undignified position, much like a starfish, snoring into his pillows. His color looked better, though Bilbo suspected he would take pains not to recover in time for the ball in three days’ time.

This reminded her of several letters to write in regards to preparations, and she spent an hour drafting notes to the musicians, chefs, and workmen who had all become embroiled in Lord Thranduil’s mad scheme. She had been granted easy permission to use the earl’s name when commissioning workers (though Bilbo had read enough ladies’ novels to know of the derelict nature of most nobles when it came to prompt payment) and thus far everything seemed well in order. She was under no illusions that it would remain so.

At last the clock chimed quarter past eight, and she set aside her pen to draw on her gloves and hat, wrapping her scarf around her neck and leaving a note for Mrs. Gamgee on the kitchen table. The morning fog had already lifted and the April rains of the evening past had given way to a watery sunlight. 

The young Mr. Gloin answered the door; at this hour his customary glower seemed more understandable. “Hello,” Bilbo said. “I’ve come to speak with Captain Oakenshield.”

“Come in then,” Gimli muttered, opening the door further with somewhat lacking grace. Bilbo tried her best not to smile and instead followed him inside, where she was greeted by a half-dozen sailors doing something complicated with Bard’s grandfather clock. 

Bofur, who seemed in charge, was the first to note her presence; he cleared his throat loudly and said, “Miss Baggins, always a delight to see you grace our halls.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” she replied, removing her bonnet and smoothing her hair. “As glad as I shall be, no doubt, to hear what it is you and your compatriots are doing.”

“Oh, this?” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him where the sailors had lined up in an orderly row before the clock. “Just instructing my lads on the intricacies of the modern timepieces. We had a sea watch on the _Longbeard—“_

 _“_ And I still say,” Dori interjected, with the temper of a man who had broached the subject often, “That the method of lunar distances is by far the more accurate and—“

The conversation devolved a bit, with Dori’s siblings taking umbrage at his outburst and Bifur making displeased noises over having anything to do with any of them, until Bofur cleared his throat again — this time rather more pointedly.

“At any rate,” he said, “That’s what we’re doing. A valuable lesson in modern clockwork.”

“I see,” Bilbo replied. “And is dismantling Mr. Bowman’s clock a part of the lesson?”

Bofur whirled on Nori, who had just hidden the pendulum bob in Ori’s pocket. “I can’t take the lot of you anywhere,” he said, despairing. “All right, lads, here’s how you jerry-rig a bob when someone’s scarpered with it like a blackhearted villain.”

“Who would do such a thing?” asked Ori, aghast.

From the doorway to the parlor, Gimli sighed and Bilbo remembered her original mission. “I shall expect all pieces of that clock to be in evidence by the time I leave,” she warned them as she made her way to the door.

“Of course, Miss Baggins, and may I say again what a delight it is to see you in such fine—“ Gimli shut the door on any further compliments, for which Bilbo was grateful.

“They’re out on the veranda,” Gimli said, with the air of one imparting secrets best left untold.

“Thank you, Gimli.” She ignored his scowl and handed him her bonnet and gloves, which irked him delightfully. It was all she could do not to pat him on the head.

“Gimli, stop glaring at once,” Mrs. Eredson commanded as she came within to collect Bilbo. “Miss Baggins, I am so glad you could join us. And — my goodness,” she remarked, “What a lovely scarf that is.”

Bilbo realized that she was wearing Thorin’s scarf — and that she was speaking with its maker. “I… thank you,” she said, resisting the urge to clutch at the offending garment. Not that Mrs. Eredson seemed in the least offended; on the contrary, she was beaming brightly enough to rival the watery morning sun. “The captain was kind enough to loan it to me; I’ve been meaning to return it.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Eredson admonished. “It looks far better on you than it ever did on him. Now, please come out an join us!The Baron has brought our invitation to the assembly ball himself — such a compliment, I think.”

“The Baron is here?” At once, Bilbo’s embarrassment evaporated, leaving a chilled stone in her stomach. “I would not wish to intrude.”

“It’s no intrusion,” Mrs. Eredson said, linking arms with her and pulling her out onto the veranda. There she was greeted by Thorin, his jaw set as he stood by the door. Smaug was sprawled carelessly in a chair at the table — though he appeared to Bilbo no less dangerous than the Naval captain who loomed over him.

“My lord,” Bilbo said, dropping a curtsey, “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“So many pleasures to be found here at Dale Abbey,” Smaug replied. “I would not have expected _you_ at this hour, Miss Baggins. Unless you had an appointment with someone in the household this morning?” 

Mrs. Eredson released Bilbo and motioned for her to sit. “The vicar hardly needs an appointment,” she said brightly. Bilbo could detect from her no caution, no concern; that in itself was worrying. What had Thorin told his sister of the baron? What made her so cheerful in his company? She tried to think of another person who behaved with such assurance, and recalled Thraunduil’s careless indifference to Smaug’s opinion of him. But Mrs. Eredson did not have the position — or the protection — of an earl. Her conduct seemed as foolhardy as dancing at the edge of a cliffside.

“No,” Smaug said, amused but vicious, pulling himself up to lean on the table. He withdrew his pocketwatch and examined it thoughtfully. “But she _did_ have one. It is precisely nine o’clock; you were told to be here at this hour, were you not? Punctuality has always been one of your charms.”

Bilbo did not dare look at Thorin; she could feel the cold weight of a rifle in her hands. “I was not aware my timekeeping habits merited such interest, my lord.”

“You underestimate my interest, Miss Baggins — how disappointing.”

“She was here to see me,” Thorin said, stepping forward and taking the last chair, on Bilbo’s right. “I asked her to come.”

“Indeed?” said Smaug. He glanced at Bilbo and made a mocking half-salute. “It seems you were right after all, vicar — about the captain’s motives for being here in Laketown.”

Bilbo’s heart stuttered in her chest, before she remembered that dreadful conversation in her parlor, all those weeks ago — how this entire affair had begun, by telling Smaug a lie so outrageous that she’d never dreamed it could become the truth. Yet she could still not formulate a reply; words died in her throat before they could escape.

“My motives have changed significantly since I arrived, my lord,” Thorin said, leaning back in his chair. “My original aim was — well, perhaps I ought to tell you the story, if you have the time.”

Mrs. Eredson looked exasperated, as though unaware just what Thorin was offering. “I’m sure his lordship has much to occupy his—“

“I am entirely at your disposal, Captain Oakenshield,” Smaug replied. “Please do regale us all.”

Bilbo wanted very badly to kick Thorin under the table, but she was not sufficiently confident that she could attempt it without alerting either Smaug or Mrs. Eredson. She settled for treading on his shoe; he only lifted his brow and moved his foot.

“Have you ever heard, my lord,” said Thorin, settling in his chair as though he intended to be there a good while, “Of the Arkenstone?”

Somewhere in the garden, a swallow began to sing; it was the only sound for several moments. Then Smaug said, with a long exhale, “The King’s Jewel.”

“So you have,” Thorin said. Bilbo trod on his foot again.

Mrs. Eredson made a disapproving noise. “ _I_ have not.”

“Which does you credit, Mrs. Eredson,” Smaug said, all condescension. “The Arkenstone has… an unsavory reputation.”

“It’s said to have been the hiltstone of King Arthur’s sword. But unsavory’s a better word for it,” Thorin told his sister. “The Blackened Pride, the Cursed Victory. Legend held that any king who held it in a time of war would triumph in any action — but to hold it in a time of peace—“

“Wait,” said Mrs. Eredson, sharply, “I _do_ know this story. Wasn’t it called something else? Something foreign. And there were two of them, or three.”

Bilbo frowned. “Do you mean the Silmarils?”

“I suppose I do,” said Mrs. Eredson, frowning. “That was the story about the three jewels that were stolen by some terrible creature, wasn’t it? And some well-meaning but quite stupid men swore an oath to get them back, and it caused a century of war — perhaps a millennium, I can’t recall — and in the end only one was recovered by some goddess or elf or something — Vivien or Luthien.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, the story coming back to her in bits and pieces. “One was thrown in the ocean, the other into a volcano. But I always thought that story was — well, like Merlin or Medusa or Remus and Romulus. Not _real._ ”

“The King’s Jewel is real enough,” Thorin told her, “Though the last king to hold it was King Henry VIII; he gave it to the Church, and from there it seems to have had a somewhat peripatetic existence. No man held onto it for more than a few years, it seems, and about two hundred years ago, it vanished altogether.”

“This is all very interesting,” Mrs. Eredson said dubiously, “But what on earth does it have to do with _you_?”

“Very little, as it turns out,” Thorin sighed. “The _Longbeard_ — my ship,” he added helpfully to Smaug, “Was commissioned to bring a professor from Munich who claimed some expertise on the Arkenstone. Unfortunately, as we were crossing the Channel, a storm blew up. My ship was destroyed.”

“How very unfortunate,” Smaug said. His eyes glittered. “And yet you survived — strange, considering the tradition of captains going down with their ships.”

Bilbo braced herself for a duel to be fought then and there; but Thorin seemed amused by Smaug’s needling. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but that tradition is found more often in stories than history books. My men pulled me from the wreckage; but there were thirty-seven souls not so fortunate that night — the professor amongst them. We had spoken at some length, however, and I have some small hope of continuing his work.”

“And what work might that be?” Smaug asked. Bilbo glanced at him; his tone was sharp, too interested. Thorin and Mrs. Eredson did not seem aware, but Bilbo had spent too many years treading carefully around the baron’s temper to miss the note of — was it alarm? Fear, even? She could not tell, but it was something she had never heard before.

Thorin was answering the question. “He had found — or thought he had found — the location of the Arkenstone. Some old letters from a British nobleman who had travelled to Munich sometime in the early eighteenth century who had hoped to sell it to a German prince, but the agreement fell through. The professor believed the nobleman returned to England still in possession of the Arkenstone.”

“What a thrilling development. And for whom do you hope to claim this prize, Captain Oakenshield? Your duty was simply to bring this professor to England, not follow in his footsteps. Your commissioner can hardly expect you to turn over the King’s Jewel to him, should you succeed.”

“As it happens, he does,” Thorin replied. “My commissioner is the Prince Regent — the Arkenstone has long been an object of fascination to him. He intends to use it to boost national morale and, on the off chance that the tales are true, turn the tide of the war. If I were to claim the Arkenstone for myself, His Highness might consider that a sign of disloyalty.”

“Or treason,” Smaug rejoined, and Bilbo was sure beyond measure that _this_ would result in calls for swords (or possibly muskets). But whatever devilry had gotten into Thorin made him a man not easily fazed; instead he leaned back and smiled, coldly, at the baron.

“You are a perceptive man, my lord. In any case I have very little use for such a bauble; the King’s Jewel is no more than a means to an end.”

“What end might that be, Captain?” Smaug asked, all friendliness. It chilled Bilbo’s blood more than any threat could have done.

“Vengeance, of course,” replied Thorin.

Bilbo could feel her own heart in her throat.

“Such a lofty goal,” Smaug said. “Against whom are you planning to exercise this vengeance?”

Thorin’s smile had not grown any warmer. “That is a rather more complicated question. My ship was sabotaged; I have proof of this, as well as some evidence indicating the man responsible. Acquiring the King’s Jewel will provide me with means to see this man executed for treason.” He cocked his head, examining Smaug carefully. “After all, anyone who tries to prevent the return of the King’s Jewel to its rightful owner is working counter to the good of England.”

“A more fitting description I could not come up with myself,” Smaug said. “Any enemy of yours would be an enemy to this country.”

Mrs. Eredson, who up until this moment had seemed so deep in thought as to not have paid any attention at all to the conversation, huffed in exasperation. “If I remember my bedtime stories correctly,” she said, “These Silly Mills—“

“Silmarils,” corrected Bilbo, Smaug, and Thorin all at once.

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Eredson waved her hand, “I do recall that they had another peculiar property — they burn the hand of anyone who acquires them unlawfully.”

“The wording is something like ‘without justly deserving possession,’” Thorin said. “The professor seemed to think that meant anyone not of royal blood.”

“I ought to buy you some stout gloves, then,” said Mrs. Eredson with a broad smile. “Or perhaps a pair of blacksmith’s tongs?”

Smaug rose to his feet. “Captain, ladies,” he said, “I fear I have kept you too long, but I am most grateful to have heard this intriguing story. I cannot convey my appreciation to you for sharing it with me.”

“It was my pleasure, my lord,” Thorin said, standing up and extending his hand.

Smaug took it; but the world continued to spin, against all of Bilbo’s expectations. Smaug turned to leave, Mrs. Eredson following him out, when he turned back. “By the way, who was this voyaging nobleman? The man on whom all your hopes are pinned?”

“I believe he was a distant relation of yours,” Thorin replied. “The Baron Durin; the former masters of this province. Did you know, the Durin family used to call themselves the Kings Under the Mountain?”

“I’m sure there are all manner of things that the Durin family used to do,” Smaug said, bowing slightly. “But they are all dead, Captain — now they do nothing at all.”

***

“How much of that was true?” Bilbo asked. 

Thorin had resumed his seat, now a good deal closer to Bilbo. She was not at all sure she approved of his presumption, but she had other demands to make of him at present. Mrs. Eredson had not yet returned, but Bilbo could hear her soundly chastising someone from within the house, so she assumed Smaug had taken his leave.

As if to prove this, there was the crashing noise of something heavy (Bilbo spared a moment of concern for the grandfather clock) and another round of Mrs. Eredson’s scolding, this time with a liberal dose of vocabulary that Bilbo should not have been surprised to hear, coming from a woman with so many seafaring relatives.

If this perturbed Thorin, he gave little sign. “All of it,” he answered, taking her hand.

She pinched him on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. “But that is not _all_ of the truth, is it?”

Thorin extricated his hand from her grasp and closed his fingers around her fist; he looked more solemn than amused. “It’s more of the truth than is safe for you to know — but less than everything, yes.”

“Then why not tell me before?” Even as she asked it she wondered at her own feelings — she ought to be angry or at the least offended at his secrecy. Perhaps it really was true love, if she was so willing to be duped with only a later demand for the truth.

“Because it is — and remains — a confidential matter of the Crown,” said Thorin, and at least he appeared apologetic. “No one save myself, my uncle, and the Prince Regent himself knew of the mission’s full parameters. The Professor we were ferrying thought he was traveling to a seat at Oxford; I was supposed to find out what he knew without alerting him to the idea that we might be in earnest.”

“And so you did,” Bilbo said. “Please don’t tell me you charmed the information out of him.”

“On the contrary, it was difficult to get him off the subject,” Thorin said. “The man was loquacious, to say the least. When he wasn’t nattering away about the Silmaril he was talking about the Andvaranaut ring.”

“Another cursed bauble, I’d venture to guess.”

“To say the least,” Thorin confirmed. “He claimed he’d found the ring, in fact — wouldn’t let any of us see it, of course, far too precious for that. No doubt it’s at the bottom of the ocean now, if it _was_ the real thing.”

“It seems quite fortuitous that all these cursed objects keep getting flung into the sea or the nearest fiery pit,” Bilbo observed. “But if this mission was such a secret, why in Heaven’s name did you tell the Baron?”

“Because he already knows it,” Thorin said. Now that Smaug was safely away, Thorin’s expression was clearly wrathful.

Bilbo put two and two together and came up with a rather startling answer. “You think the _baron_ caused your boat to capsize?” Bilbo shook her head. “How on earth could he have managed that?”

“Capsizing a boat in a high storm is hardly difficult,” Thorin said. “The trick is rather to _prevent_ it from capsizing.”

“Precisely my point,” Bilbo countered. “How could he have orchestrated such a thing? Unless you believe the baron can conjure up storms.”

“The ship was sabotaged,” Thorin said heavily. “If you believe nothing else, believe _that_.”

Bilbo considered it. Thorin had been a sailor almost all his life; his men no less experienced. If Thorin had caused the ship to sink through his own incompetence, would his men still be by his side, biding their time in the middle of the country instead of finding other berths on other ships? It seemed doubtful.

“Very well,” she said, “I will believe that it _was_ sabotage, and that you _think_ it was the baron—“

“I do not _think_ it—“

“Then what proof do you have to offer me?”

Thorin huffed, and released her hand. “You are a thoroughly exasperating woman.”

“Then you have no proof,” Bilbo concluded.

“I have my reasons.”

“Which is hardly the same thing.”

“You do not believe him capable of killing someone he saw as a threat?”

That gave Bilbo another pause. That Smaug was capable of dealing out cruelty was not in dispute; but it was another thing to consider him willing to commit murder. “I cannot say,” she admitted.

“I can,” Thorin said.

***

Bilbo still had her rounds to make; when Mrs. Eredson reappeared, she seemed horrified at the prospect. “But you’ve only just arrived! I was looking forward to some company with someone who doesn’t consider expectoration a national pastime.”

“If Miss Baggins has no objections, I’d happily relinquish my place as her companion today,” Thorin said. “The assembly ball is fast approaching, and I’ve yet to prepare.”

“What on earth would you need to prepare?” Mrs. Eredson said, flapping a hand dismissively. “Put on a naval uniform and watch every girl in Laketown go weak at the knees — hardly something that needs a good deal of preparation. Besides, I don’t find it in the least amusing to trudge along muddy lanes — begging your forgiveness, Miss Baggins, but God invented the horse so that we might make good use of it.”

“The Bible has relatively few passages about the divine’s intended use of horses,” Bilbo informed her as Thorin fought valiantly to keep from laughing. “But I shall study them and let you know as soon as I am able.”

In the end, Thorin was unable to maneuver his way out of accompanying Bilbo on her walk. “Anyone might think you did not appreciate my company, Captain,” Bilbo said as they set off. It was an extra two miles back to the area they were supposed to visit today, but Bilbo did not mind; the chill morning clouds had faded and brought bright sunshine, glinting off the puddles and the rain-dusted grass in the fields.

“Anyone who cared to look would know how much I appreciate your company, Miss Baggins,” he countered. “Though perhaps few people would understand why.”

“Everyone here in Laketown would understand perfectly; I am exceedingly well-loved.”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed, “You are.”

Bilbo tried to set aside the events of the morning as they made their afternoon rounds; but she found it very difficult. Thorin, for his part, seemed curiously liberated, as though this secret had been a burden from which he had at last freed himself. He spoke warmly to the tenants and farmers they visited, helped corral children and livestock, carried whatever provisions were presented to him without excessive complaint. It was as though she were offered a glimpse into the future as it might be. Which made her reservations all the worse.

As they made their way back to the Vicarage, she could no longer hold back. “Are you truly in danger of a court-martial?” 

“More questions,” Thorin said. “I did wonder at your reticence today. Very well — yes, and no. The Admiralty was brought into the Prince Regent’s scheme only after the _Longbeard_ sank, and were angry at being pushed to the side, even by His Highness. I believe they wished to make an example of me, but when I told them I believed I could prove the sabotaged _and_ locate the Arkenstone after all, they decided to hold off until I succeeded — or failed.”

“Generous of them.”

“More generous than _I_ had expected,” said Thorin. “Court-martialling a captain who loses his ship may seem harsh, but it is necessary. Our ships are too valuable, too costly to risk mismanagement. If someone wishes to become a captain, he must understand the consequences of failure.”

“So where is it now?” Bilbo asked. “The Arkenstone, I mean.”

“I believe it resides in the same location as the papers proving my legitimacy,” Thorin said.

“That does seem rather a neat coincidence,” Bilbo pointed out. “What could the chances have been that the Prince Regent just happened to find the long-lost heir to the estate on which a priceless jewel resides?”

“Less of a coincidence than that,” Thorin countered, shifting the bags in his hands. “My uncle was the one to recommend me; he knows, of course, my family’s past, and when he heard that the Durin family may have once held the Jewel, he knew I might succeed where others would fail.”

“So His Highness knows who you are?”

“He knows who I claim to be.”

“But why not simply have the Prince Regent demand that Smaug turn over the Jewel?”

“Several reasons. Firstly, not even Smaug knows the location of the vault. Secondly…” and here Thorin hesitated.

It was easy enough to guess. “Secondly, you didn’t _tell_ anyone where you thought the Arkenstone was.”

“It seemed prudent at the time,” Thorin argued.

“I’m sure it did,” Bilbo sighed. Another thought occurred to her. “If you fail, what will happen?”

“That is not the kind of question a man wishes to hear from a woman whose company he appreciates,” Thorin said, but his smile faded quickly. “It depends entirely on _how_ I fail. If we are caught red-handed in the Baron’s home—“

“ _That_ was always a possibility,” Bilbo reminded him, as they rounded the last corner that brought them within sight of the town square. It was early evening and still bustling, even from this distance; she could hear the shouts and laughter from the market, the clatter of wheels and hooves, the protestations of livestock as they were brought into the Commons for grazing. “And I do not mean that, precisely. What if you were to return to the Admiralty without the Arkenstone — what then?”

“If it is a simple inability to find it — or my father’s documents — the consequences may not be so very dire for my crew. My uncle has promised to take on whoever wishes a berth. Whatever the outcome, Kíli and Fíli will not suffer as a result of my actions.”

Bilbo had that sinking feeling. “But you _would_ suffer.”

He did not attempt to placate her. “I would.”

“I see,” Bilbo said. “So all this time, it has not been a choice between becoming a baron or remaining a captain. Your very liberty is contingent on the success of your scheme.”

“It’s hardly a scheme,” Thorin complained. “And I would not have put it quite that way.”

Bilbo turned to face him, her hands at her hips. “Captain Oakenshield, will you or will you not go to prison if you are unsuccessful in this venture?”

Thorin sighed. “I will. Or possibly Botany Bay,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Even worse,” Bilbo shuddered, and continued onward. “Very well.”

Thorin trailed after her. “‘Very well’?” he repeated, in tones of deep suspicion.

“Very well,” she affirmed, “I will be your burglar, Captain. Though you may not like my conditions.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jane Austen fans will recognize the first line from "Sense and Sensibility.” Feedback is welcome and probably necessary - this is my first foray into Regency and my first attempt at writing a trans character, and although I’ve worked hard to do this well, please don’t hesitate to let me know if you have problems with what you’re reading. I can’t guarantee that I’ll change things, but I can promise to listen, so if you want to give me concrit, I’m all ears. Or eyes. Sensory organs. Whatever.
> 
> Also GUYS [LOOK AT THIS AND BE AMAZED](http://camillo1978.tumblr.com/post/119532989989/the-vicar-of-erebor-by-leupagus-on-the-old-ao3).


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